


All the world I've seen before me passing by

by brothebro



Series: The Bear, the Wolf and the Sorceress [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bounty Hunters, Canon-Typical Violence, Ciri is a good girl, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Essi and Triss on their travels, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Geralt Typical Angst, Himbo Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier goes by Julian for many chapters, M/M, Mama yennefer is best mama, Multi, Nilfgaard, Panic Attacks, Parenthood, Pining, Roach has a past, Sad boi hours, School of the Bear, Secret Identity, Swearing, They meet Aiden, Will add tags as I update, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), no beta we die like witchers, panic attack are only in some chapters tho and there's always a warning, whole witcher cast will be there eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 51
Words: 78,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23052019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Julian just wants to play music and not being driven out of towns with torches and pitchforks.So he procures what he believes to be a simple glamor from a mage.With his newfound appearance and confidence, he starts his adventure as Jaskier the bard.And then he meets the famous Butcher of Blaviken in a tavern in Posada.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii & Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Bear, the Wolf and the Sorceress [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677910
Comments: 1270
Kudos: 1755





	1. When a humble bard (part 1)

Posada.

A quaint little village. This will be perfect for his little experiment. Julian looks up in the sky, bright and blue and warm. The sun rays gently caressing his scarred skin.

Posada lies a couple of kilometers away, serene and quiet. He feels the leather band in his pocket. It’s now or never. That mage better be right.

He fastens the braided leather bracelet to his left wrist. Chaos tendrils emerge from the band. His skin tingles and it begins to change. He can see the scars from years of monster-fighting receding, mending until only smooth skin remains.

He brushes his digits on his lips. There’s no ugly cut anymore. His lips aren’t permanently parted anymore. Suck it, Siren. He wins this round.

He sighs in relief.

It seems the mage that sold him the glamour was not as shady as he initially thought. He was quite skeptical in the beginning; the mage sold it to him for a far too little coin. He had thought it would be a parlor trick he purchased. A simple illusion. And it would have been enough for him.

This now, this was more than enough.

He checks his reflection on his freshly polished silver sword. Bright blue eyes look back at him. Eyes he hadn’t seen in a hundred years. A treacherous tear rolls down his cheek. His whole body shivers with anticipation.

Yes. This was what he wanted. To go to a town and not be spit upon, to play his music and not be driven out. _Witchers don’t play the lute, witchers don’t sing,_ he could hear his instructor’s voice in his head. “Shut up”, he hisses under his breath.

He shuts his eyes and drives away the treacherous thoughts.

Everything seems so silent. Sure, he can hear the faint noise the crickets are making and the rustling of the leaves. But everything is so much more muted now. He inhales deeply and soundly and he’s surprised he isn’t overflowed with the world’s stench. So this is how it feels to be human, huh?

He has his trusty old lute and a new fancy blue doublet and he’s going to be fine. No-one is going to even think for a moment he’s a Witcher. An air of relief escapes his lungs. All there’s left to do is hide his armor and his weapons - twin swords, one silver, and one steel and his trusty crossbow- and he’s good to go.

He shoves the equipment in a small nook between two huge boulders. His armor is going to look like shit when he gets it out, but it should be relatively safe here.

He keeps his amulet in his hands, feeling the engraved face of a bear roaring on the one side and the crudely etched marking of a buttercup flower on the other. He stays like this for a moment, contemplating whether he should take it with him or not. Better not risk it, his mind supplies. It will be safer here. He gently places it under his armor and he feels the uneasiness tumbling in his stomach.

 _It will be safer here_ , he repeats to himself silently.

He decides, however, to keep a small silver dagger in his boot. Just in case. You never know when a monster may attack.

An unprepared Witcher was a dead Witcher after all. Even if he currently wore human skin the rules still applied.

______________________________________________________________________

Posada’s only tavern stands before him. He hesitates for a moment, fiddling idly with his doublet’s lacing. He gathers all his courage, plasters on his face his jolliest and most inviting smile end pushes the door open.

Nobody even blinks his way. There’s no putrid smell of fear in the air, only the smell of spilled ale and general dirt, a common occurrence in most backwater establishments such as this one.

He approaches the bar carefully, scanning the room for any potential threat. When he finds none, he relaxes and feels the tension release from his shoulders.

“What can I do you for bard?”, a man, presumably the owner of the tavern says with a smile. _Bard_. He likes the sound of it.

“I’m looking to make some coin.” Julian sais with a serious face and an even more serious voice. The man in front of him looks stunned and Julian realizes what he’s done. Fuck. Witcher habits die hard. He immediately fakes a chuckle. “What say you we strike a deal? I sing and bring a crowd to this place-” he gestures at the almost empty tavern “-and get to keep any coin or food, that gets thrown my way!”, he smiles brightly.

“Food?”, the man arches a brow.

“I’m not really picky about my reward. Food is food, whether it is served in a silver platter or thrown in chunks upon my lovely person” Julian jests and he can see the man relaxing his expression. “Do we have a deal?” he extends a hand. _A soft, unweathered hand._ His mind supplies.

The man takes his hand. “Deal, sir bard.”

“Please call me Ju..” he clears his throat. “Jaskier.”

_Jaskier_. Like the flower his mum made him pick from the clearing the day the witcher claimed him and brought him to their keep to be trained in their arts.

He had decided a long time ago this would be his artist’s name. Simple and beautiful, like the flower.

As long as he wore the glamor, Julian the Childslayer of Metinna and everything that was associated with this name was dead.

_________________________________________________________________________


	2. When a humble bard (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier meets Geralt.  
> He has bread in his pants and so many questions.

Jaskier sings and dances around the small dark tavern that is now chock-full of people. He sings only jolly tunes shaking down any request for a song that touches the grim side of life with a simple ‘Aren’t we here to have fun?’, which, understandably almost always leads to stale old bread being thrown his way. He pockets some of the better pieces nonetheless. In his pants. He really should have chosen a more practical outfit, shouldn’t he?

Ah~ This is the happiest he’s been in… he tries to think of the last time he was this happy. He can’t think of a time and that irritates him. 

And then he sees him enter. 

The witcher. 

The townspeople murmur to each other, glancing at the witcher, their faces morphing in disgust and fear. If Jaskier still had his witcher senses he is sure he would smell the rotten scent of fear; rotten eggs and sulfur.

He scans the witcher from head to toe, careful as to not startle him and give away his disguise. Silver hair, permanent scowl plastered on his face, wolf medallion. _ Ah _ . It’s the Butcher of Blaviken. 

Jaskier is curious. He’s heard so many rumors about the other witcher. They said he murdered a shit ton of people in Blaviken and without a good reason too. Jaskier knows though, that rumors such as this usually hide drama and heartache and, well, a different truth. A truth that he now wants, no,  _ needs  _ to find out.

That’s why, despite the little voice in his head saying not to bother the man, to ignore him, he instead approaches him in a bright and cheery manner befitting a young and fearless bard.

_ It’s going to be fine Jaskier, he won’t find out Jaskier,  _ he silently repeats to himself.  _ And even if he does he won’t care. He doesn't know you Jaskier. _

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier says to the witcher as he leans to a wooden column near the table the witcher is seated- in full armor he might note. He can see the irritation in the man’s golden eyes and well, Jaskier counts that as a success. For once, that means the witcher won’t be ignoring him at is likely to continue the conversation.

“I’m here to drink alone” The witcher doesn’t even look at him as he answers. Typical answer for a witcher. Not that he’d met a lot of witchers in his travels - the witchers from his school being loners and whatnot - but he can relate. It’s hard enough dealing with humans when you’re human. When you’re a witcher though… Things can get heated fast. And that’s the bad kind of heated. 

“Good. Yeah, Good.” Jaskier will keep this conversation alive even if it kills him. “Noone else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except… ” he moves closer “... for you. Come on. You don’t wanna keep a man with bread in his pants waiting” he gestures at the poorly tucked in piece of bread near his hip. That was a witty thing to say and he’s secretly proud of it. “You must have some review for me! Three words or less” he moves even closer to the witcher and sits on the bench opposite of him.

“They don’t exist,” the witcher says with a serious yet mildly annoyed expression. 

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow questioningly. “What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song”

Well,  _ duh _ . Obviously. He knows they don’t exist. He deliberately made them up after all. He thinks it’s a smart move to play the ill-informed bard. After all, it’s highly unlikely there is a bard in the continent that has met any monster. Most of them keep to their cities and their academies and books. He knows this a fact. He’s made a quite extensive research on the bardic trade after all. Back when he harbored the hope to study in the Oxenfurt academy. 

Wait. He can do that now. With this glamor! 

“And how would you know?” It’s such a stupid question, he internally cringes but it doesn’t reach his face. He was born for this role. He mentally pats himself on the shoulder.

The witcher just stares at him. Jaskier can see him questioning his intelligence. Now’s his chance to ‘guess’ the witcher’s identity.

“Oh, fun! White hair, big old loner, two very… very scary-looking swords. I know who you are” As Jaskier keeps on talking the witcher just gets up and leaves. The gall! How rude! He follows him swiftly to the tavern’s only door. “You’re the witcher,”  _ A witcher,  _ he corrects himself silently.”Geralt of Rivia. Called it!” He admits he’s quite pleased with how he carried the conversation. It’s not every day he gets to talk to another witcher. Strike that actually. It’s not every day he gets to speak. Period. And he really likes speaking too.

A man, young, in his early twenties, Jaskier thinks, approaches Geralt. He offers him a contract. Something of a devil of some sort that’s been stealing the villagers’ grain. 

_ A devil. Hah! _ As if devils exist! It’s probably a Sylvan. But why would a Sylvan be stealing grain? Perhaps it’s not a Sylvan but a bandit dressed up as a devil?

Curious, nonetheless. 

A hundred ducats the man offers. Not bad at all, for such an easy job. Jaskier whistles. It makes him wish he’d been the one to take the contract. 

_ Oh well. _ He made enough bread for a week with his singing.  _ It’s something. _

“One fifty” he hears Geralt haggle. Ah, he was this kind of witcher. Well, he wouldn’t blame him; traveling around tends to exhaust one’s resources quite quickly. He knew from experience.

The man accepts and pays half the coin upfront. Man, he really should have taken the job himself. 

_ No _ , he scolds himself,  _ you’re a bard now _ . But, it wouldn’t hurt to follow Geralt around for this contract, would it? He did have the excuse of wanting to write accurate songs if the witcher ever questioned him. He also really wants to know why he was called the butcher of Blaviken and that, he will find out. Also, what’s up with this grain stealing demon?  _ So many questions. _

And so he runs after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg! thank you so much for all the kudos and the comments <3  
> They are really really really appreciated!
> 
> I doodled a bit today and tried to position Julian's scars on his face so I can have a reference.  
> I'll render the piece a bit and will add it to this chapter or the next one when I'm done :D


	3. They came after us, with masterful deceit (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is very very unlucky.  
> -this chapter has some swearing  
> -canon typical violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kudos <3  
> you're all awesome!
> 
> I'm @brothebro at Tumblr if y'all wanna discuss au's with me :D  
> and @labro_comics at Instagram (i do some witcher fanart there)  
> feel free to drop by and say hi!

Jaskier is following Geralt on foot the whole way to the place the devil was sighted the last time. He doesn’t stop talking the whole way there, it’s as if there was a dam on his tongue the past century that cut off almost every attempt at verbal communication. And now, now this dam had fucking exploded in a million pieces and the words that were pooling in his head escape like a violent river. He can not stop his tongue from running wild and he loves the feeling. 

At some point, he offers Geralt to become his barker. To spread the tales of the witcher’s adventure. He’s not sure why he does that, but he must admit it’s a tempting idea. _At least one witcher deserves an image fix._ Jaskier’s image was beyond repair so why not help the white wolf instead?

Geralt, on the other hand, is walking beside his brown mare; Roach he calls her. A strange name for a horse, but then again Jaskier called his previous stallion Dung-Beetle, so yeah, there’s that. Dung-Beetle had unfortunately met a horrible death a couple of towns ago -- Melitele rest his poor soul -- by a particularly nasty cockatrice. Said cockatrice paid the price threefold, but that’s a story for another time. 

So they are traveling side by side for several hours and Jaskier’s feet start to tire. _Fuck._ He’s definitely getting blisters. Humans are so fragile. 

They are on a mountainous road and Jaskier realizes when he stops talking for a moment and pays attention to his surroundings, that they are only a few meters away from where he hid his equipment. There’s this nervous tightness in his stomach and he decides to walk closer to the rocks. He’ll inconspicuously check if his equipment is still there and the other witcher will not notice a thing.

Except, his equipment is not there. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. FUCK!_

_That’s really bad. It’s a disaster._ Someone stole all his things. He thought they were well hidden. It was everything he owned. Well, except the lute and the doublet of course. 

He tries to keep his calm. _Inhale….Exhale…_ He will find the thief with his witcher senses, eventually. And the thief will pay. 

For now, he will keep following Geralt and who knows! Whoever stole his armor and his weapons might be the one who stole the grain too. So yeah, _it’s going to be fine_. _What else can possibly go wrong?_

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Apparently a lot more can go wrong. 

Good news they found the one stealing the grain. It was indeed a Sylvan as he suspected. Bad news, the Sylvan was stealing grain for a ragtag band of Elves that are hiding in the mountains. And those Elves have them currently outnumbered and surrounded. 

Even worse news, he can’t seem to be able to remove the enchanted bracelet. He pulls and pulls but it won’t budge. He takes out the small silver dagger he carries in his boot in a futile attempt to cut the leather. Emphasis on _futile_.

Oh no. _Oh no no no no no no_. He can’t be cursed. He can’t, thank you very much. 

_Shit._

Geralt must have noticed Jaskier standing there in the middle of the field like a big brightly colored target and tried to protect him from the incoming projectiles because the next thing he knows they are tied back to back in some cavern?

Oh. It’s the caves near Dol Blathana. 

Oh. The elves are hiding here, in their ancestral home.

Oh. They’re as good as dead.

Geralt is apparently convinced that he can break loose from the ropes restricting them because he grunts and tosses around, never staying still and Jaskier feels like a ragdoll from all the movement. _Oh, joy_. 

“This is the part where we escape,” Jaskier says awfully calmly, for a human man imprisoned by Elves. He knows their chance of escape is pretty slim to nonexistent but he won’t pass up the chance to calm the other witcher, because, quite frankly, all this movement is making him nauseous.

“This is the part where they kill us” Geralt hisses.

“Who’s they?” he has an indication on who _they_ are but he asks anyway. 

“Beast!” an elven woman (he guesses it’s a woman at least) spits out in Elder and kicks Geralt with force right in the face. Ouch. It sounds painful. He hopes he’s spared the kicking, after all, he’s just a humble bard, isn’t he? And he’ll probably be a humble bard until he finds someone to break the curse for him. The question is -- if of course, they survive this whole charade -- does he want to return to his old life? To the Path? 

_Probably not_ , he thinks.

The woman kicks Geralt again and Geralt, he can’t seem to resist pointing out the obvious as he growls “Elves”

A lute makes a strangled sound and Jaskier’s stomach twists and becomes a knot. Fucking Elf is mishandling his precious lute! “Oi! That’s my lute! Give it back!” he commands. “Quick Geralt do y-your witchering!” he manages to stammer out, but he knows Geralt can’t to any _witchering_ with his hands tied up tightly behind his back.

They are beyond fucked.

“Shut up!” Geralt growls at him.

“You shut up!” shouts the elven woman in response and hits him again. She has quite an aggression problem if you ask Jaskier. And he’s from the School of the Bear; the most aggressive witcher school of the continent. Even more aggressive than the School of the Cat.

Jaskier can’t seem to be able to stop his treacherous tongue from babbling as he says, “Oh, my Elder speech is rough, I only got part of that”

“Humans, shut up.” The Elven woman tries again desperately, but Jaskier will only shut up when he’s dead and his tongue is cut off.

_Oh, the irony_. There are no humans there. 

“Ah, got it, thanks so much,” Jaskier thinks he’s being smart, talking in Elder and all. Apparently it’s not such a smart move as he’s initially though because he gets a death threat from the woman and a swift kick to his lute. 

“Oh no please not the lu--” not his precious lute. It’s all he has left, he grimly reminds himself.

“Leave off!” Geralt shouts. “He’s just a bard”

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe” hisses the woman and Jaskier thinks it’s understandable, feeling like that, considering what the humans have done to the elves. ‘The great cleansing’ the humans call it, but it’s nothing else than a glorified genocide. It leaves a bad taste in Jaskier’s mouth. “Everything you touch you destroy!” she hits Geralt again and again.

The lute cries it’s final sound as the second elf in the room break it in half. Jaskier feels close to crying. He’s had this lute for almost 50 years. _Rest in peace Magnolia._

_Enough is enough._

“You hide in your golden palaces” he finds himself saying. Although ‘golden palaces’ is quite a stretch, “You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!”

“Do you like my gold palace,” the woman sneers ”does it live up to the tales you humans tell?” Jaskier hears Geralt headbutt the woman. _What an absolute madlad. Note to self to never piss off the witcher too much._

Jaskier laughs mockingly, “Take that pointy!” 

The woman coughs and wheezes and grasps for air. She sounds terrible and Jaskier immediately feels bad. “Wait, what’s - What’s wrong with her?” he finds himself saying, guilt thick in his voice.

“She’s sick” Geralt hisses under his breath in what can only be realization. 

And then the Sylvan and a blond Elf enter the cavern, the blond elf rushes to help his fallen compatriot. 

“He’s Filevandrel, King of the Elves” the Sylvan informs them. 

* * *

Witcher! Jaskier art by your truly :

[Jaskiers scared face](https://www.instagram.com/p/B9mEnz_luC8/?hl=el)


	4. They came after us, with masterful deceit... (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you know Jaskier is fluent in Elder?  
> Now you know.  
> Also, Filavandrel is being a good lad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the comments and kudos <3 
> 
> shout out to some of my favorite witcher!Jaskier fics and non-human!Jaskier fics!  
> Twenty years redone: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035888  
> When cat and wolf play: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22395859  
> Shining: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562836

Filavandrel and all the Elves hiding in these caves have been hurt so much by the world, Jaskier can tell. They were forced to leave their homes and they are starving. The Sylvan is the only one that helps them still, that steals for them so they can survive. 

War is a horrible ordeal. The elves are painted the villains of this story and that’s only because they lost. Jaskier can taste the bile in his mouth. They have suffered so much,  _ no _ , not only them; all the non-humans are suffering in this world. There is no place for them left. 

So he chooses to remain silent for once. No snarky remarks, no sarcastic comments. Jaskier’s lips are sewn shut because he feels for them. He was so young when the humans burned down his school and murdered everyone inside. He was lucky in a manner, being away from the keep when it happened, hunting Bruxae in Skellige. The scar splitting his back in two itches at the thought. Does he even have this scar now? He wonders. 

Geralt, to Jaskier’s surprise, engages in a heated conversation with the elven king. The witcher seems to aspire to calm the hurt and dying elves. He is trying to convey to them that violence doesn't solve everything. And even if Geralt and Jaskier were to die this fateful day by their hands this will solve nothing. Others will seek them. Many will die. Such is the bitter truth of war. His way with words is rough at best, but he gets his point across.   
  
Filavandrel is bitter and is hurt. He’s had to bury so many. So many, of his neighbors, his friends, his family. He has no viable choice left; if he and the elves leave the mountain they will become slaves for the humans and if they stay they will eventually starve to death. Jaskier cannot but let a soft sob escape his mouth. His eyes are watering. He feels for the elves. He really does. But what can he do, how can he help them? A thought crosses his mind. It’s crazy but… but it may work.

Filavandrel’s attention snaps to Jaskier. The room is completely silent as the elven king kneels in front of the bard. His brows furrow in confusion. 

Jaskier is looking at the cold hard ground weeping softly like he hasn’t since the fall of his keep.  _ No _ , his mind reminds him,  _ since Metinna _ . He feels a hand lifting his chin and his eyes meet the eyes of the king. 

“Tell me human,” Filavandrel starts saying, “do you fear death so much? Or-” 

“ **Humanity is shit** .” says the bard in near-perfect Elder between sobs, “ **Leave this place, go far away where the man’s corruption won’t reach, rebuild, grow strong and strike them harder** ”, he chokes down the tears that are falling from his eyes. He can see Filavandrel stunned for a moment before his gaze moves away from the bard’s eyes and to his side. The king brings a blade to Jaskier’s and Geralt’s tied arms. 

_ What is he--  _

_ Oh… _

The ropes binding them are cut in a swift movement. Geralt hums in thought but doesn’t move. 

The king is now holding Jaskier’s arm, the one with the  enchanted cursed bracelet. 

“ **You’re not human** ” the elf simply states and Jaskier nods. No point denying it now. “ **This is a powerful curse. Are you one of our own?** ” There’s a sliver of hope in Filavandrels eyes for a moment but then Jaskier shakes his head and it disappears. 

“ **It doesn’t matter what I am. What matters is that no one deserves a fate like this,** ” he gestures to the room and the elven woman lying on the ground still breathing heavily. “I will make the humans believe you were eliminated by the witcher and you’ll be able to leave this barren land for good.”

Jaskier can feel all the eyes in the room fixed on him.  _ Oh, gods _ . As much as he likes attention this makes him feel uncomfortable. Even Geralt has turned to look at him, eyes quizzical. 

“This can work,” the white-haired witcher says in but a whisper. 

“You would do that for us?” the elven king asks bewildered.

“I’ve got nothing to lose” the bard replies simply and seriously. A small and reluctant smile forms on his face. 

Geralt nods in agreement. “The lesser evil,” he says simply, eyes wise and compassionate.  _ Beautiful.  _ The thought startles Jaskier and swiftly locks it away. 

* * *

Filavandrel lets them go. He also gifts Jaskier a beautifully crafted elven lute in apology to the mangled Magnolia. He will treasure it until the end.

The road back to Posada is slow and silent. Well almost silent. Jaskier has this melody in his mind that he hums softly in an attempt to perfect it. The lyrics fall into place easily.  _ This will be a hit. Everyone’s going to sing along to it. _ He’s certain.

_ The champion prevailed _

_ defeated the villain~  _

He looks over to Geralt from time to time, contemplating letting the other man know of his curse.  _ Better not.  _ This curse is giving him a second chance at life and he’s not going to waste it. He’ll embrace it, muted senses, feeble human body and all.

Geralt must have noticed the strange looks Jaskier was giving him because he breaks the silence growling a slightly annoyed ‘What’. 

“Nothing” he sings and the witcher hums. 

“You’re stupidly brave, bard,” the witcher says a faint smirk forming on his stoic face. 

“Why, thank you, Geralt!” Jaskier brings a hand to his chest and lifts his chin in a manner he’d seen an actor do in a play in Novigrad several summers ago. 

“Your Elder is good.”

“Indeed” he gazes curiously at the white-haired man. Where’s Geralt going with this? Is he perhaps onto him, has he seen through his disguise?

It takes a while for Geralt to continue and Jaskier ponders whether the man has a hard time choosing his words. 

“I only got part of what you said.” Jaskier can tell from the way the witcher’s brows furrow that he’s unsure -- or is it worried? -- about the next thing he wants to say. ”What was this about a curse?”

Ah. From all the things the witcher could have understood… Seriously. 

“Nothing to be concerned about dear witcher! The word was used in a metaphorical sense, in a manner of, the elves’ destiny was as if a curse had befallen them living in those horrible frightful conditions” Jaskier blabbers nervously, as you do when you have to lie through your teeth unexpectantly. 

Geralt only cocks an eyebrow in response and does not press any further. 

“Now come, friend!”

“Not your friend.”

“We must inform the town of your heroic deeds, my  _ friend _ ” Jaskier smiles brightly and skips ahead even though his whole body is cries in protest. 

He’s going to have some ugly, ugly bruises by tomorrow.

“And after we’re done collecting our payment-” 

“My payment.” Geralt cuts him off. Of course, it’s  _ his  _ payment but Jaskier did help significantly! He deserves at the very least a mug of ale and a nice bed!

“-Our payment,” he continues unphased, ”We’ll hit the road!”

“Why?”

“Adventure of course!”

Geralt rolls his eyes.  _ His brilliant golden eyes.  _ Jaskier feels his heart skip a beat. “No. Why are you following me? The Path is not for humans.”  _ It’s dangerous _ , The witcher’s eyes show the unspoken words.

But Jaskier knows that in this particular mess he’s found himself into, Geralt’s side will be the safest place to be.


	5. Feasts and Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's adventures in Cintra  
> Jaskier has no self-preservation instinct  
> (again)
> 
> (Geralt POV)  
> -cannon typical cursing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm eternally grateful for all the comments and the kudos and the bookmarks <3 yall are amazing!
> 
> While writing the chapter my boyfriend entered the room. He peeked from behind my shoulder and said:  
> "You can tell a witcher fic's quality from the word's 'fuck' position." and pointed to the lone word occupying a line by itself  
> And I went like "Ok I have no idea if that's a compliment or not"  
> and the fucker just shrugged and left the room. 
> 
> Several hours later and I still have no idea what he meant. XD

Geralt of Rivia was content traveling the continent with Roach as his only company, taking contracts and slaying monsters. And then the bard entered his life. The bubbly, noisy, can’t-keep-his-cock-in-his-pants bard. He smells of freshly baked bread and chamomile, mixed with the scent of wet earth after the rain that comes following a period of drought.  _ Hmmm. _

The idiot needs saving almost everywhere they go, be it the deep woods or a random village. Usually, though, Geralt has to save his sorry ass from an angry and betrayed spouse. 

The man is an inconvenience at best, but after traveling together for years Geralt can admit that he thinks of him as a friend.  _ A noisy, migraine inciting friend.  _ But a friend nonetheless. He’ll never admit it out loud though. Lest he wants the bard to never shut up. 

Jaskier is an odd person in Geralt’s mind. He can be the most peace-loving person he’s ever met but also terrifying and aggressive in certain situations. And that doesn’t sit right with him. 

First of all, the bard knows so many little things about certain monsters; sometimes more than Geralt. If you’d have to ask the witcher, Jaskier knows too much about vampires. Geralt can’t complain because that knowledge has saved his ass on multiple occasions, but...

Just a few weeks ago he saw the bard singlehandedly take down a lesser vampire (again; there was this encounter with several Fledders and Alps years ago that Geralt had almost forgotten about), an Ekimma, with just a dagger. Sure, they are not the toughest of vampires but they are still dangerous, especially to humans. During the fight, the bard’s eyes burned with so much rage and hatred it had startled Geralt. 

‘Fucking vampires, pests of the world’ Jaskier had screamed on top of his lungs as he stood above the mutilated corpse of the Ekimma. Geralt was seriously concerned. What kind of vendetta had the bard with the vampires?  _ Hmmm… _ He had tried to ask him, but the bard was unusually quiet, and his ordinarily bright blue eyes dark and unapproachable. 

Jaskier has a past he’s hiding and Geralt is sure of it. He knows that living in these dark times is hard and often horrible for many so he does not press. If Jaskier wants to tell him he will. So he waits, but the answers never come. 

* * *

Of all the things the bard could drag him to… Of-fucking-course it’s a coming of age fest for the princess of Cintra. Geralt couldn’t care less about royal rituals and snobby gatherings. But Jaskier needs protection, because, well, he’s Jaskier and he’s slept with half the court. 

Pavetta’s coming of age celebration is eventful, to say the least. Duny, a cursed knight claims the princess’s hand through the law of surprise. Queen Calanthe does not like that at all and orders Geralt to cut the man down. Geralt does not like orders and much less striking innocent men. So he fights and protects the knight the best he can.

At some point, Pavetta has enough and Geralt can smell the thick intoxicating chaos emanating from her. 

She screams and the court can hardly breathe from the sheer force of her chaos. 

_ Fuck. _

It’s all a blur for a little while, but he remembers moving closer to the princess, that is now floating in mid-air together with Duny and chanting something in Elder. Violent winds are circling them, protecting them. He has to calm her down, else everyone in the room will die of asphyxiation.  _ Jaskier will die,  _ his mind adds. 

He does not want that.

He tries to reach Pavetta and to his surprise, Jaskier has done the same. He should be gasping for air pressed against the wall with the others. But he’s not. 

“Princess, it’s fine,” whispers the bard, his voice so small Geralt would not have heard it if he wasn’t a witcher. “It’s fine, you’re fine. No one is going to hurt your knight. You have my word”. 

The words reach Pavetta recognition and hope glistening in her eyes but she doesn’t stop the chanting. She does slow the winds down though. 

The winds recede just enough for Geralt to be able to calm her with Axii. 

_ It’s over,  _ Geralt sighs in relief.  _ They are safe.  _

There, in the center of the now destroyed room, lay the knight, the princess, and the bard. The stupidly brave bard. 

Calanthe rushes to her daughter, the putrid stench of fear strong mixed with the saltiness of her tears. She pulls her in a tight hug. It would have been moving if Calanthe wasn’t the one to blame for this shit-show. 

“I thought your grandmother’s gift had skipped you,” Calanthe says softly, “as it did me. It seems I was wrong. About so many things”, she takes a deep breath and speaks loudly the next words, “Destiny has spoken, and I have listened. The law of surprise will be honored. Pavetta will marry lord Urcheon.” 

Geralt can hear the almost silent gasps, the almost silent comments the lords and ladies are whispering at each other as Calanthe announces Pavetta’s engagement. Some are of disapproval, some are of disappointment and some are of amusement.  _ Typical royalty.  _ Geralt grunts. 

His eyes linger to the bard, who’s now dusting off his obnoxious golden attire. Jaskier’s eyes are shining with genuine happiness. A stupid smile stuck on his face.  _ Good.  _

And then Eist jumps in and announces his betrothal to Calanthe, which sushes even the most fearless noble. 

Geralt hums. It seems there will be two vows tonight.

Jaskier moves closer to Geralt --  _ too close  _ \-- the witcher thinks, as the binding of Pavetta and Duny commences. 

“Isn’t it delightful?” Jaskier whispers in Geralt’s ear. He hums in agreement and puts his best into keeping his emotionless facade up. 

And then true loves kiss breaks the curse put upon Duny and he turns back to his human appearance. At first, there is confusion and awkward stares. Then, there are celebrations and tears. 

Jaskier lets a small squeal escape his lips. “I think this has the makings of my greatest ballad yet!” Geralt just stares at him incredulously. Of course, the bard’s mind would think to make this a song. Geralt just hopes it’s not as obnoxious as ‘Toss a coin’. 

“If you’re alive in the morning,” he catches himself saying, “Don’t grope for trout in any peculiar rivers until dawn.” He turns his back to leave but Duny stops him.

“No! Wait! Wait!” the knight says, “You both saved my life” he gestures to Jaskier and him. “I must repay you”

“You’ve proven yourself to be the kind of man that would do the same.” Geralt says, a slight smile forming. “I want nothing.”

“We want nothing”, Jaskier echoes in agreement.

“No, please. Don’t feel like you’re doing me a service. I cannot start a new life in the shadow of a life debt.” Duny wants to repay them, then so be it. 

Before Geralt can utter the words he has in his mind he hears Jaskier’s voice loud and clear and serious.

“We shall claim the tradition as you have” the bard starts and Geralt can see Calanthe’s face morphing in fear.  _ Fuck.  _ “the Law of Surprise!” Jaskier exclaims and the witcher shoots him an incredulous look.  _ He was about to say that himself.  _ “Give us that which you already have, but don’t know.”

Calanthe is outright furious. Well, fuck, but he doesn’t care at the moment. After all, they’re likely to get just a mare or stallion. 

And then Pavetta vomits.

“Fuck.” Geralt and Jaskier say simultaneously.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They are chased out of Cintra, Calanthe threatening to execute them if they even lay a foot in her kingdom again. 

“That could have gone worse,” Jaskier grins widely. “Shame they won’t get to hear my iteration of Pavetta’s betrothal. It’s going to be my greatest ballad yet!”

Geralt hums. “So you’ve said.”

“Where to next?”

“South. I’ve heard Metinna has troubles with all sorts of monsters.”

Jaskier stops at the spot, eyes wide with terror. 

“Jaskier?”

When he doesn’t respond for a while, Geralt worries.

“No, no no no no no!” the bard says quickly and Geralt wonders what’s so bad about Metinna that has him so terrified. ”They hate witchers there! It’s dangerous, Geralt!”

“They hate witchers everywhere.”

“Not like this! Not like this Geralt! We’re going to be lynched and flayed before we even enter the town!” Jaskier’s heart is beating so fast, Geralt thinks it close to exploding. “Let’s go to Velen! Velen’s chock full of monsters!” _We,_ odd choice of phrasing. Why would they hurt the bard? He is not a witcher. 

Geralt hums. He contemplates Jaskier’s words for a moment. If the fearless bard is so scared, they’d better avoid Metinna. He has to ask him about it at some point. It’s not like him to get so scared.

“Velen it is then,” he says and the smile of relief that forms in Jaskier’s face is all the reassurance he needs that he’s made the right choice. 


	6. A djinn, a bard and a very scary witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets cursed. Again.  
> Yennefer is scary.  
> Geralt is an idiot.   
> Chireadan is unlucky.
> 
> -canon typical swearing  
> -canon typical sexual content

Jaskier finds Geralt by a river fishing for a djinn. 

That’s how a good day starts, right? False. That’s how what can only be described as Jaskier’s second-worst day, to date, starts. And he’s had plenty of bad days. In fact, he could be considered an expert on bad days. 

Geralt needs the djinn, to apparently cure his insomnia. Which is an utterly ridiculous reason if you ask Jaskier. And an absolute lie to boot. He recognizes those tiny bits of frustration in Geralt’s eyes. This is about the Law of Surprise.  _ Gods, Geralt.  _ Why can’t the man leave it be! It’s not like they even have the tiniest of chances to claim the royal kid. And they don’t want to either! If destiny drops the kid to their feet, of course, they’ll take care of her. They won’t abandon her! 

_ They are witchers, not monsters _ . Except, Jaskier’s a bard now and a human, of course, for an indefinite amount of time. He fiddles with the unweathered bracelet. 

Geralt is also being incredibly cranky. How dare he insinuate Jaskier’s singing is hollow and mediocre! The witcher needs a nap and he needs it now. 

The witcher proceeds to promptly ignore him as he nags and grumbles at him.  _ The gall!  _

Then, Geralt pulls something from his fishing net. 

_ Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!  _ It’s a djinn’s vessel! He moves quickly, grabbing the amphorae from the witcher. He won’t let him wish for anything stupid, like say, cancelation of the law of surprise. 

He pulls the vessel and the seal pops off staying in Geralt’s hands. Jaskier makes two very silly albeit mean wishes ( _ fuck you Valdo Marx and your stupid songs! _ ) when Geralt reaches for the empty amphorae which leads to it falling down and shattering in multiple pieces. 

Geralt has his angry face on. Uh-oh. He’s yelling at him. But the words won’t register. Jaskier is focused on the sky darkening and the violent winds appearing out of nowhere. 

And then comes the pain. 

His throat is burning like he’s consumed one too many potions. Scratch that. It hurts more. It hurts like a million burning needles are piercing his vocal cords. He gasps for air. Somehow this makes the pain worsen. 

The next few hours are a blur. He remembers Geralt’s brilliant gold eyes shining with worry and fear. He remembers an elven healer, Chireadan --oddly enough the name stick to him--, telling them he’s going to die if he doesn’t find a mage to heal him. He doesn’t want to die, he really doesn’t. Not cursed like this. Not when he hasn’t told the witcher how he feels every time he gazes into those sunflower eyes of his. 

Jaskier fades in and out of consciousness. He remembers a three-story house, a naked middle-aged man falling asleep, Geralt carrying him like a sack of potatoes. Dammit, Geralt. Can’t he see he’s in pain? Would it hurt to carry him gently?

The next thing he remembers is a room full of naked people.  _ Ah, it’s an orgy.  _ But it seems wrong and twisted and Jaskier hopes the people know what they are doing. Consent is important. Always.

And then he feels several pairs of boobs in his face. Under other circumstances this would have been blessing, but now… Now all he can think about is his monstrously swollen throat. 

His gaze searches for Geralt. The witcher is talking with a woman but he can’t hear what’s being said no matter how much he stretches his ears. 

And then, everything goes dark again.

* * *

Jaskier wakes up with the taste of iron, strong on his tongue. But his throat isn’t swollen and it doesn’t hurt anymore. He’s lying on one of the possibly softest beds he’s had the pleasure lying on; soft silks and plush cushions surrounding him. He can get used to it. 

He reluctantly lifts his upper body to a sitting position, scanning the strange room he’s found himself in.  _ Was this all a dream? _ He ponders. 

He notices a semi-naked woman sitting at the edge of the bed, her back turned to him.  _ That’s a really nicely shaped back. Alas, not as good as the white wolf’s. Shame. _

“Whew. Uhm...Right. Good. good. Uhm...” he mumbles. ”Not to be... Untoward or anything…” he starts saying hesitantly. This will either go incredibly well or disastrously bad. A chuckle escapes his lips, “did we...you know...do the uh...” _the horizontal waltz,_ is what he wants to say but before he can finish his trail of though the woman turns to face him. Her brilliant amethyst eyes piercing his entire being. _A witch,_ he realizes. 

She moves closer and he feels the panic rising. Witches are dangerous, witches can end a man with a simple flick of their fingers. He backsteps in an attempt to avoid her. “Oh no! No! Definitely did not butter that biscuit” he finds himself saying. The witch is scary. She has the look of a woman that wants everything.  _ Terrifying _ . “Look, I am so sorry but I just remembered I left my cat… on the stove” he mentally facepalms. For a renowned bard this was, well, the worst excuse he could come up with.

The woman cocks an eyebrow and does not move closer. “I see you’re recovered well, bard,” she says smugly. “Do you perchance want to remove the other curse that ails you?” 

“Thank you very much for offering, but no. I happen to like that curse” he says too quickly, backstepping his fight or flight response locked on ‘flight’. The witch looks at him curiously, a brow arched.

“Not so fast.” the witch states, voice strong, “Express your deepest desires and then you can be on your way.”

“Well, my deepest desires are currently satisfied, thank you so much.”  _ Shit,  _ he’s backed against the wall.

The witch uses a force similar to Aard to slam him against the wall.  _ Damn _ , it hurts. If only he could ‘Aard’ her back and see the smirk fall from her face. 

She moves closer until she’s a breath’s hair away from him. She’s holding a knife to his throat and she’s squeezing his balls so hard he wants to cry.  _ Scary, scary evil witch. _ ”Make a damn wish.” she threatens and he mumbles the first thing that crosses his mind; the desire to get the fuck away from there, from her. 

She seems satisfied and she lets him go. Finally.  _ Thank Melitele _ . 

* * *

Geralt has a hero complex. Jaskier is sure of that. The stupid brave gorgeous witcher is rushing to save the scary witch from the djinn.  _ She’s stupid enough to want to be a djinn’s vessel, then leave her be,  _ Jaskier wants to argue, but Geralt is gone before he can utter the words. 

He’s left there, standing awkwardly together with the elven healer, waiting. 

Then the house starts crumbling, stones and roof pieces are falling and the bard’s stomach clenches in fear.  _ Oh no no no no no no _ . Geralt can’t be dead! He can’t! He refuses to believe so, but no one could have survived the fall. No one, not even the white wolf with all his extra mutations. 

He feels tears threatening to fall. 

Chireadan calls to him, prompting him to look through a broken window on the ground floor. “They’re alive” he chirps. “Oh. They’re really alive.” 

The witcher and the witch are fucking and something breaks and shatters inside of Jaskier. 

He swallows hard. He has a really bad feeling about this whole ordeal. But at least Geralt is alive and unharmed. 

That’s a win in his book,  _ right _ ? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooh boy! My town's in quarantine and I have nothing to do (other than working from home- thank Melitele for that-- I will get payed this month) so I write this fic the whole day.
> 
> Stay safe lads, lassies and nonbinary folks <3   
> and thank you for all the comments and the love you're showing to this fic <3   
> I don't deserve you<3


	7. I'm weak my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is awful.  
> Jaskier is heartbroken.
> 
> -canon typical violence

“If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands.”

The words strike true and they strike hard. Geralt doesn’t want him; in fact, his witcher hates him and blames him for everything wrong in his life. He sees the man he loves -- gods yes he loves him -- turn his back and leave him standing there at the edge of the world, his heart shattered in a million pieces. 

“See you around, Geralt”, he chokes down the tears but he can’t stop his voice from breaking, giving away the hurt. 

He’s been foolish, believing the witcher thought of him anything more than an annoyance. For over twenty year’s they’d traveled together. They shared adventures and meals, they shared feelings and even a bed on multiple occasions. Was it all for naught? Did it mean nothing at all? Jaskier swallows the bile rising to his mouth. He’s too stunned to move so he just stands there looking, but not really  _ looking,  _ down the harsh mountain path, full of rocks and arid land. 

He doesn’t know how long he spends standing there motionless. 

At some point, he feels a gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. He feels some of the tension he was holding release and his breath steadying; ugly sobs coming to a halt. He looks through blurry eyes and sees Borch -- Villentretenmerth-- in his human form looking at him with pity in his eyes. He doesn’t need the dragon’s pity. He needs Geralt to come back, to tell him that all this was all a very bad joke and he didn’t mean anything he said, or more accurately, yelled. 

The dragon is doing something to him, he’s sure. He feels unexpectantly calm when he shouldn’t. He wants to scream and bawl his eyes out, but he can’t. 

“Julian” Borch says in a low voice. Jaskier flinches at the mention of his birth name. He hasn’t heard it for twenty years, hell, he hasn’t even though of it for over a decade and a half. How does the dragon know of it? But before he can ask he hears Borch speaking again. “I want to give you something, young witcher.”

“I’m not young. In fact, I’m older than… than -”  _ Geralt,  _ he wants to say but the mere thought of the name makes him tear up again.

Borch chuckles. “Oh, I know Julian. Nevertheless, I want to thank you for being such a delightful company the past few days”, the dragon pulls out a golden scale from his pocket. “A dragon’s scale can be used to lift a curse. Take it, in case you feel the need for a fresh start.”

Jaskier studies the pure gold scale for a moment, contemplating on taking it or not. Will it lift the curse immediately? Does he get to chose the moment? 

“It’s on your hands, if and when to use it,” Borch answers as if having read his mind.  _ He probably has,  _ Jaskier thinks and Borch shoots him a knowing smile.

* * *

  
  


The trek down the mountain is long and lonely. He walks for days, only stopping to rest when his legs refuse to move anymore, too tired from walking miles on end. There’s no dragon now to magically calm his feelings and so he sings of heartbreak and weeps and cries and howls. He’s mourning the loss of a dear friend, of his heart and love. The melody in his mind dominated by sorrow for the first time in decades.

_ I’m weak my love… _

The sky is weeping with him, rain falling in heavy curtains. Everything around him turns to muted greys and browns as if the whole world can feel his misery. 

_ So tell me, love, tell me, love, how is that just? _

He cries and sings until he’s out of breath and his heart feels so tight in his chest. He doesn’t even notice the bandits gaining on him. 

“Give us your coin and we’ll let you live bard,” a soaked filthy man says, pointing a rusty sword at him. Jaskier ignores him and continues mumbling deliriously lyrics upon lyrics, strumming gently the strings of his prized elven lute. Right now, nothing’s more important to him than the harsh words of Geralt that are circling his mind, clouding all other thoughts and muddling his senses. 

“Hand over the coin, lest you want the witcher, the mighty Geralt of Rivia, magic you away!” commands the man again. 

_ Witcher? Geralt?  _ His lost love’s name is enough to bring Jaskier back to reality. He examines the predicament he’s found himself into, his eyes landing on said witcher a few feet in front of him. It’s a rather small man, gray hair, his armor too big for him. Jaskier’s gaze lingers for a moment of the man’s eyes; light brown human eyes, not gold and beastly with slit pupils. 

He studies the armor again. He knows this armor. Long upper piece, reaching the calves, made of strong leather and chainmail. Sturdy iron shoulder pieces. A bear medallion.

It’s his. It’s his fucking armor. 

“Boss, I believe we found ourselves a loon. Let’s kill ‘im and get his co--,” says the second man to the impostor witcher but before he can complete his sentence Jaskier is upon him, fingers forming the familiar Aard sign. The man flies several feet away, crashing on the bark of a strong tree. 

The leather band that had accompanied him for so many years falls to the muddy ground. 

Villentretenmerth’s scale becomes golden dust that flies away.

And just like this Jaskier is dead and Julian lives ones more. 

Julian is furious. His eyes are burning hot with anger. He brings his dagger to the impostor’s neck, drawing a thin line of blood. “Give me my armor and I might let you live,  _ filth _ .” he hisses. 

The impostor’s heartbeat is escalating, Julian can now hear it clearly. The rotten smell of fear is strong in the air; it’s mixed with the stench of a man that has just emptied his bladder on himself.  _ Classy. _

The impostor witcher swallows hard and with shaky hands, he attempts to cut the real witcher in front of him. Alas, Julian is too quick. He deflects the blow easily disarming the man and cuts his throat deeply. Blood bursts out the lethal wound like a fountain, leaving Julian drenched in a horrible mix of blood, mud, rainwater, and tears. 

The second bandit stares for a second wide-eyed at the sight before fleeing, running frantically, screaming in terror. 

Julian does not bother running after the man. 

Jaskier the bard died in this place, he decides. He throws away his bloody doublet and wears his old armor. It’s in a decent state, considering the bandits had it for gods know how long. He skips the urine-soaked pants though.  _ Thank you very much but no. Absolutely disgusting. _

He fastens his swords, one on his left and one on his right. The crossbow’s missing, he notices. But it’s alright, he can always get a new one. 

He gently puts his lute in its case and hangs it on his back. 

Fiddling with his medallion to soothe his nerves -- the etching of the buttercup is still there -- he starts on his way to the nearest town with the intent of getting a contract. Hopefully. It’s not like he can sing for coin now, or charm his way to some stranger’s bed. Can he?

* * *

[I drew a sad Jaskier ](https://www.instagram.com/p/B94YzChlbju/?hl=el)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments make my day every time I read them <3 thank you so much<3 
> 
> so, my town's in quarantine  
> I'm hours away from a panic attack  
> but I write to soothe my anxiety  
> so all's good


	8. The bloody doublet and the damaged tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is sad  
> Calanthe is a **redacted**
> 
> -Geralt POV

It takes Geralt five days to realize the mistake he’s made. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault he did the stupid wish; he could have stayed away from Yennefer or at least wished for something… less soulbond-y. Gods, what has he done. He left his bard --  _ the  _ bard, he corrects himself-- all alone on that mountain. 

_ Fuck. _

He said some pretty fucked up shit. Jaskier doesn’t deserve this. He has to find him and apologize to him. And hope Jaskier will be willing to speak to him again.  _ If he finds Jaskier alive and well,  _ his mind adds and his heart feels heavy with the thought that something might have happened to his bard --  _ fuck! THE bard --  _ on the way down the mountain. He’s probably fine, he tries to calm the anxious thoughts swirling in his head. He’s fine, he probably left together with Yarpen and the dwarves. He wouldn’t be so stupid and leave all by himself, would he?

_ Except he would. _ Geralt does his best to hide that thought in the deepest darkest corner of his brain.  _ He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.  _ Jaskier has survived far worse things than a trek down a mountain. He can take care of himself. He’s witnessed it.

He directs Roach to the way they came. The road to the closest town is bound to take longer by foot, therefore Jaskier is probably two to three days behind him. He’s going to find him. 

* * *

Geralt feels his heart falling at the sight before his eyes.

Jaskier’s silk doublet is lying on the ground abandoned, the metallic scent of blood permeating the witcher’s sensitive nose. 

_ Fuck.  _ He feels his stomach twisting.

He hesitates for a moment but then picks it up gently to inspect it. Its state is horrible; the buttons are torn open and it’s dirty with dried mud and blood. Something happened to his bard and it’s his fault. 

He examines the scene, air rich with the stench of blood and urine. But under all that he can still smell freshly baked bread and chamomile and the scent of rain after drought. There’s a dent in a tree nearby, he notices, as if someone was thrown on it with inhuman force. Geralt curses under his breath. Is this how it ends? His bard is most likely dead, yet there is no decaying body to be seen. 

He hasn’t even realized he’s fallen on his knees, his breathing heavy and irregular. He feels like there is no air enough in the world to fill his lungs. His limbs are shaking and going numb by the second. 

He swallows hard and tries to steady his breathing. It’s no place to have a panic attack.

If there is no body there are two options; either his bard was eaten by something very very big. His stomach turns at the thought. Or he’s alive and someone took him. He whishes deeply it’s the second of the two options. 

A plan forms in his mind. He’s going to find Jaskier and save him and then he will apologize. 

  
  


It’s been almost a year since Geralt started his journey on the search of his bard. He’s combed the northern part of the continent, even enlisting the help of Lambert and Eskel, but so far there’s no sign of the bard. No one’s seen him and with every dead end, every bard in tavern singing Jaskier’s songs, the pain in Geralt’s heart gets more severe. Until he can barely take it anymore. 

He even goes south, where he knows Jaskier will never set foot at, because the hope remains in his heart that he’ll find the bard. _ He will find him, _ he reminds himself every passing hour. 

Geralt travels as south as Metinna; the town Jaskier avoided like the plague all these years. He was right, Jaskier. The people there chase him out with torches and pitchforks. They even throw stones at him and now he’s sporting some nasty bruises on his torso and face. From the crowd’s murmur, he catches the words ‘Childslayer’ and ‘evil witchers’ and ‘killing our children’. He wonders what happened in that town. If --  _ no. _ when -- he finds Jaskier he’ll ask and he’ll listen. Gods, he will listen. He misses the constant chatter of the bard. But what he finds he misses more are those bright blue eyes of his and the joy and excitement that sparkle in them.

* * *

There’s one place left to ask for his bard’s fate. Cintra.

If someone knows were Jaskier is, it’s Calanthe. Over the years they had to outmaneuver several groups of her spies. They were relentless. The queen of Cintra was overprotective of her grandchild, that much is sure. Jaskier and he, never returned to the great kingdom after that fateful night at Pavetta’s betrothal as they had no plans on claiming the Lioness’s heir. 

Angry royalty was never to be messed with. So, he will meet with Moussack somewhere outside the city unnoticed; the druid will surely know of his bard’s fate. And if Calanthe has him indeed… He will tear the place apart to free him.

He approaches the great citadel carefully, using less crowded roads; or in some cases no roads at all. 

And then he sees the massive army of black and gold. 

_ Nilfgaard _ .

Several thousand soldiers are marching the road to Cintra. A grunt escapes the witcher’s lips.  _ Change of plans then.  _ He will find and protect both his bard and their child of destiny. He’s seen what the Nilfgaardians are capable of. They will surely kill the child in a horrid way. Children should be given a chance to live their life, he firmly believes that, memories of his childhood resurfacing for a fleeting moment. 

* * *

Geralt knew Calanthe was arrogant, but he didn’t believe her to be outright stupid. Cintra has no chance to win against Nilfgaard’s force. Even if the great Lioness leads the battle herself. 

It saddens him to no end to hear from the queen that her spies have lost Jaskier from their view more than a year ago.  _ He really is dead.  _ He sighs heavily and feels his eyes gathering tears for the first time in forever. He collects himself before anyone can notice his grief. Puts on the stoic witcher mask he’s so accustomed to.

He can at least protect his child surprise, he reckons. Princess Cirilla. Funny how he always assumed it would be a boy. 

Calanthe plays him for a fool. She gives him a child -- a girl -- who is not princess Cirilla. And when he confronts her. When he confronts her, she has Eist throw him in a dungeon.

_ Fucking royalty and their fucking arrogance. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! I could not stop smiling from all the lovely comments this fic got in the previous chapter <3  
> You are absolutely amazing! 
> 
> My quarantine days are so much better because of y'all :D 
> 
> Also, irrelevant, but I have Uno by Little Big stuck in my mind and it prevents me from word vomiting angst :C   
> I also because of that I want to draw Jaskier in a 70's disco attire (dang this song!)


	9. She's always bad news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer meets Julian in a tavern

“Oy!”, Julian calls at the barkeep raising his tankard. “Bring another one and please no spit this time. I prefer the watery ale as is, without the extra  _ spices _ ” he drags the last part of the sentence narrowing his eyes. He enjoys seeing the man at the bar sweat nervously as he scrambles to get him his drink. 

Julian somehow found himself at an excavation site at Nazair. He was going from town to town getting all the contracts he could find, making decent coin. He didn’t even notice how south -- _ too south for his liking -- _ he’d traveled before reaching the massive site, which is apparently Nilfgaardian if the soldiers in black and gold are any indication. What was it again they were digging for? It was a mono- something-something, he’s heard the workers whisper to each other. Anyway, he didn’t care much for magical thingamajigs and he wasn’t planning on staying long enough to find out.

The sun was ruthless so far south and he was dying for a nice refreshing mug of ale when he arrived. Instead, he got a lukewarm --gods make it-- watered-down ale that was spat into by at least two different people.  _ Ew. Hurray at the perks of being a Witcher... _

He fiddles with his medallion to soothe his nerves. And when that’s not enough he rubs soothing circles on his temples.

He smells her before he sees her.  _ Lilac and Gooseberries.  _ A peculiar scent. And definitely not the sour scent of sweat and way-too-old goat milk the barkeep was sporting. He hears the distinct sound of the clay mug meeting the wooden table. He doesn’t look up to meet the stranger’s face. 

“Fancy seeing you here,  _ bard _ ”. The taunting tone of the voice belongs unmistakeably to Yennefer.  _ Ugh,.. bloody Yennefer of Vengeberg.  _ The one person he doesn’t want to see. Well, one of the  _ two  _ people he doesn’t want to see if he’s being truthful.

“What do you want,  _ witch, _ ” He retorts almost in a hiss, never looking up to meet her amethyst eyes. Instead, he’s fixing his hairband, removing the long strands of light-brown hair from his face. 

“Is that a way to treat an old friend?”

“Friend? Really Yennefer?” Julian looks up and cocks an eyebrow at her. 

There is a moment of silence before Yennefer speaks again; her face switching between several different expressions before settling on her usual smug look. But it’s tainted with a tinge of worry and Julian knows, even if the witch will never admit it, that he means something to her. 

“You’re a witcher,” she says blankly. Her eyes falling on his scars and eyes.

“ _ Oh gee _ , I hadn’t noticed Yennefer!” sarcasm is thick in his voice. “If that’s all, I’ll be leaving,” he gets up slowly reaching for his swords to readjust them at his hips. 

“No! Wait, Jaskier” she rushes. He sits down cautiously again.

“It’s Julian”

“Julian” she repeats as if testing the strange name in her mouth. “I take it the curse broke?” it’s meant as a rhetorical question because she doesn’t wait for an answer and instead continues, “I need you to find Geralt.”

Julian flinches at the mention of the white-haired witcher’s name. “Of course you do! Why wouldn’t you! What do you need me for, to play matchmaker?” he can’t stop his voice from cracking, the hurt escaping. The thought of Geralt is enough to bring back this awful day at the mountain. He’s done his best to forget that day the past year. It’s funny how easy he remembers, with every drowner he slays, every bard he hears playing ‘Toss a coin’. He gets up with the intent of leaving. He’s going to leave and never look back.

“By the gods Jaskier! Can you stop being so damn dramatic for  _ one  _ minute and hear me out?”

_ Is this exasperation and weariness he can hear in her voice?  _ Not wanting to anger the sorceress, even more, he shuts his mouth and gets seated once more. He sips from his lukewarm ale, surprised when he doesn’t get the taste of spit this time. 

Yennefer sighs, “I need you to find Geralt because I finally found a way to get rid of his stupid wish that binds us.” 

_ Oh.  _ Geralt’s obsession with the witch was because of a wish. And just like this everything starts falling into place, a small sliver of hope blooming in his heart.

_ Oh.  _

“And why do you need me? Can’t you, I don’t know, portal yourself to wherever he is?” he gestures theatrically, imitating a portal (not that he’s seen plenty in his days, but he feels he gets the picture across well).

“I don’t have the time,” she says sharply, “and I can’t locate him. Something is blocking my magic.” her brows furrow. The mighty Yennefer of Vengeberg is worried and that’s never a good omen. “Last I heard he was looking for your sorry ass.”

“ _He was?_ ” A warmth fills Julian’s chest. Could it be that his witcher cares for him?

“Oh yes. He even went as far as Metinna to ask about you,  _ Julian _ ” she shoots him a knowing look.

“Shit”

“Indeed,” she says swirling the mug of ale in her hand, “He was going to Cintra last time I saw him. He suspected Calanthe had caught you and imprisoned you.”

“Has he perhaps,  _ lost his marbles? _ ” he says a little too loud and Yennefer chuckles.”It’s not funny, Yennefer. Calanthe will have his head.” 

“Then,  _ chop-chop _ to Cintra with you. Before it’s too late.” she makes a gesture with her hand. “I’m needed in Aretuza.”

He downs his ale, leaves a couple of coppers on the table and goes to get his horse ‘Dung-Beatle the Second’ from the watering post. There’s this uneasy feeling in his stomach he can’t quite place. He hopes Calanthe has left Geralt in one piece because they are going to have to have a lengthy chat after all this is finished.

Off to bloody Cintra, it is. 

* * *

[I did a little comic for a scene in this chapter.](https://www.instagram.com/p/B-AR7KIFL8K/?hl=el)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore writing Yen's and Jaskier's interactions. 
> 
> ALSO! HOLY HECK YOU ARE AMAZING GUYS <3   
> thank you for all the kind comments!


	10. Cintra falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is confused and hurt  
> Jaskier is a badass 
> 
> -violence  
> -mention of suicide  
> -canon typical swearing

Geralt spends several days in the dark damp cintran dungeon. There is no place where the days light can enter so he guesses his stay there by the intervals they bring him something to eat and drink; usually a minuscule amount of stale bread and a bowl of muddy water. He must be stuck in there at least a week. 

By his rough calculations, the Nilfgaardian army will attack soon. He knows Calanthe’s army won’t stand a chance repelling the horde of black and gold. 

He’s proven right if the screams of anguish and terror and the thick smell of blood and charred flesh are any indication. He needs to get out of here immediately. But the thick chains binding his limbs to the dark stone wall restrain his movements. He tries to cast Igni in an attempt to soften the metal but he finds himself unable to. _Dimeritium. Fuck._ He should have known Calanthe would have taken precautions to hinder his escape.

So he waits, trying to suppress the amalgam of screams and death that permeate his senses. He waits because there’s nothing he can do. He waits and wonders how he could have fucked up so much in such a short amount of time. His bard is dead. His child-surprise will be too, once Nilfgaard gets its hand on her. 

_Fuck._

The sound of footsteps wakes him up from his thoughts. If he’s got one chance to make it out of Cintra alive that’ll be it. He readies himself, moves as close to the metal bars of his cell as his chains allow him. He waits for the right moment to grab the man that’s coming and get his weapon to cut the chains. 

He can do this. 

A familiar scent overflows his senses. _The smell of rain after a drought, freshly baked bread and chamomile._ His body refuses to move, the plan’s falling apart. But he doesn’t care.

_Jaskier._ Geralt chokes a sob. It’s unmistakably his bard. _His bard._ He can barely believe it. 

He tries to rationalize it. It can’t be Jaskier. Jaskier is dead and it’s Geralt’s fault. And even if it were Jaskier, the man he’s smelling coming. Even if it were his bubbly full of life bard, what would he be doing here? In the middle of a battlefield? 

“Fuck” he hears Jaskier’s voice saying, “Of course Calanthe would use Dimeritium in her dungeon. That crazy queen. I swear--”

“Jaskier?” Geralt croaks. It can’t be. The Cintran jailors surely spiked his water with some hallucinogenic concoction. It can’t be. But he can clearly see his bard’s silhouette; the height, the size, all is exactly as he remembers. But it’s too dark still to see his face, _those bright blue eyes._

“Get away from the door please, _wolf._ I’m afraid it requires a bit of force on my part to open it and I don’t want to accidentally hurt you”. Jaskier would never call him _wolf_ maybe this wasn’t his bard after all _,_ but then again Geralt had hurt him considerably and maybe he was mad at him. _And rightly so,_ his mind adds.

Geralt knows Jaskier can be a force to be reconned with, but breaking through thick metal bars with just his strength? Not a picture he could associate with the silk-clad bard. 

And that’s apparently not what happens either. Geralt hears the swing of a sword, heavy by the sound of it, colliding with the locking mechanism of the door. And then the screech of said door opening slowly.

“Thank Melitele for swords.” the bard mutters so low Geralt wouldn’t have heard him if it weren’t for his enhanced witcher senses. “Stay still. I’ll try breaking those shackles.”

Geralt does not do as he’s told, instead, he moves closer in an attempt to see his bard’s face. He needs to make sure this isn’t a twisted dream he’s living. _Oh, how he’s missed his Jaskier._

“Are you daft, Geralt?” Jaskier hisses. “Do you have no self-preservation instinct? I told you to remain still! Or do you want to sport a stump for the rest of your life?”

He ‘hmms’ thoughtfully and now does as he’s told. It doesn’t take long for the other man to free him from his constraints. 

“Nilfgaard attacked.” Geralt says low, not so much a statement but a question of the current situation.

“Yes, that’s why we need to get out of here quickly.”

“We need to find Cirilla first.” Geralt finds himself saying. If there’s a chance their child-surprise is alive they will find her and protect her.

“Of course we do. Here have one of my swords. Can’t have you waltzing through the battlefield unarmed.” Jaskier hands him a heavy but well-balanced blade. “It’s the silver one so please be careful with it. It cost a small fortune to repair. If you damage it, you’ll pay for it, understood?” 

He hums in agreement. Wait a moment. _Silver? Why would Jaskier have a silver sword?_ What’s more baffling is that it’s not Geralt’s silver sword he’s been handed to. No, It’s a completely different one, thicker and shorter, which feels unfamiliar in his hands. 

They are walking side by side, carefully traversing the long dark corridor of the dungeon. They climb some stairs at some point and the world slowly becomes brighter. 

Geralt can now see his savior’s face. His eyes fall on the deep long-healed scar that starts from the upper corner of his right cheek, cuts through the right corner of his mouth completely destroying his lips and permanently showing his elongated canines, and ends just below his chin. Geralt can feel his heart clenching. He can’t help but mentally curse at the one that did this to his bard. 

“Jaskier--” he starts but he gets cut off before he can voice his question. 

“Jaskier died on that mountain, Geralt. I’m Julian” his eyes meet with Geralt’s as he speaks. Pitch black eyes, dark veins all around them, meet the white-haired Witcher’s golden and Geralt can feel the taste of bile in his mouth. He recognizes the effects of a witcher potion when he sees one. A million questions come rushing into his mind. Is this really not his bard? Or is this some kind of sick joke? “I implore you, get your shit together Geralt. Two, no, three Nilfgaardians are approaching.” 

* * *

The Nilfgaardians are no match for their combined force. They fight in a wild dance, the one covering the other’s weak spots like they are meant to be fighting side by side all along. Geralt can’t stop being amazed every time Jaskier -- _no_ , Julian -- cuts his enemy like butter. 

They fight their way out. They are drenched in Nilfgaardian blood and Geralt can’t help but think how beautiful the man covering his side is. How elegant, yet ruthlessly he swings his sword. His eyes are searching for Julian’s every time. The potion’s effects are receding and he can’t help but hope he’ll see those blue eyes again. Because damn him if that’s not his bard. No matter what the other man claims, he can feel it in his bones. Something happened to him this one year they were apart; this much is sure. 

But right now, right now it doesn’t matter. There are more important things right before them. Like the black-clad soldiers that are surrounding them.

And then they witness Calanthe, the great and feared Lioness, jumping to her death from the royal keep’s window. Cintra is in flames, blood and gore surround them. 

Geralt hears Julian choking a sob.“No no no no no”, he mumbles, “please be safe Ciri, please be safe.”

Geralt grabs his arm, his grip strong, breaking him from the shock. They rush to the tower cutting through any soldiers they find in their path. They search the palace’s rooms but they find them all filled with dead royals and soldiers. Ciri is nowhere to be found. 

Julian is ready to kill a Nilfgaardian soldier they find looting the treasures of a royal bedroom, but Geralt stops him. The soldier might yet provide them with useful information. 

He brings his borrowed sword to the soldier’s neck. “Tell us what we want to know and we’ll let you live.” 

“I’m already saved” responds the soldier and Geralt knows there is no chance parlaying with fanatics -- which the soldier clearly is. So he thrusts the sword to the man’s abdomen. 

“Where is Cirilla,” he presses.

“No one… is left.” the soldier whispers his final words. His stomach clenches at the hearing of the words.

“Let’s go Geralt,” Julian says, “Let’s leave this place, there’s nothing left for us here.”

Geralt grunts as words are stuck on his throat and won’t leave. He turns to look at Julian. Their eyes meet once more. He feels his heart fall when in place of the blue he meets gold. Who did this to his bard? Who stole those blue eyes from him and replaced them with beastly gold? 

“Ciri is alive, I can feel it. We’ll find her. So, please let’s leave, Geralt.” pleads the other witcher. 

Geralt nods. He can feel it as well. The bond of destiny is a strong one. They’ll find their child-surprise in time. 

At this time a long-forgotten prophecy comes to him. Renfri’s words echo in his mind.

_The girl in the woods will always be with you._

* * *

[yet another late night artwork I did](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/613328030442651648/another-scene-from-that-witcherjaskier-fic-of)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't stop writing, send help XD  
> whoooo boy! I did not expect this chapter to be 1.5 k
> 
> Thank you all for your amazing support <3  
> I hope I did this chapter justice  
> I'm quite pleased with how it came out :)


	11. Two Witchers walk in an inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian is well... Jaskier  
> Geralt speaks way too much on this chapter
> 
> -mention of nakedness  
> -soft bois
> 
> (There is nothing nsfw dont you worry)

Julian leads Geralt outside the burning walls of Cintra to safety. Well, if you count the imminent threat of Nilfgaardians pillaging the settlements near the once great citadel as safety. Alas, they have not much choice on the matter as they have to get Dung-Beetle the Second and possibly also Roach and get the fuck away from there. At least they've found Geralt's armor and swords in Calanthe's bedchamber (that absolutely mad queen!) and now the broad shouldered Witcher was armed and a real threat again.

And they have to find Cirilla of course. If Julian has to guess a possible escape route the girl could have used he’d say north-east to Temeria or maybe Aedirn. 

He doesn’t speak much throughout the short albeit arduous journey to -- what’s the name of this village again? Well, it doesn’t matter really. He catches Geralt staring at him on multiple occasions, the wolf’s eyes full of worry and hurt. For once in his life, Julian finds himself at loss of words. He wants to remain mad at the other Witcher, he really does. But every time their eyes meet something melts inside him and he can’t help but feel the corners of his mouth lifting upwards reluctantly. 

_ How can I be mad at you my love? My fierce love of twenty-three years.  _ He needs to write a new song, he decides. Witcher or not, he doesn’t care.  _ Fuck it. He's going to do what he wants _

They reach ‘The Roasted Hare’ inn late at night. To Julian’s relief, his black mare is waiting for him outside, at the stables. “Good girl,” he pets her muzzle. It’s the first words he’s spoken in hours, he realizes. He turns to face Geralt, “Where did you leave Roach?”

Geralt seems stunned for a moment before he answers, “The other inn, just outside the village.”

Julian let’s a deep musical laugh fall from his lips. “I can’t believe I didn’t see her. I’ve missed the cranky old girl!”

“Jaskier, what happened to you?” Geralt asks concern and worry thick in his voice. 

“My name is Julian, Geralt. I was not joking when I said Jaskier is dead.”, he says with a sad smile, “I can never be Jaskier again.” his voice is breaking. _ Great.  _ “I can surely never play at court again, not with this ugly mug”, he jokes halfheartedly. 

“Since when--” starts Geralt but Julian cuts him off. 

“All in order dear Witcher. Let’s get us a warm meal and a bath, not necessarily in that order. Because quite frankly we smell like death. And especially you, Geralt.” 

Geralt hums in agreement. “Fair enough.”

They enter the inn and find themselves facing a shocked and very scared barmaid. A really young one on top of that. Probably the owner’s daughter, Julian guesses. The rest of the tavern part of the inn is relatively empty aside from the occasional drunk having passed out in their bowl of stew. Which is to be expected this late at night.

“A room and two warm baths, please.” Julian drops the coins on the counter before her and flashes her a toothy smile. Which in hindsight was not a very good idea as the girl whimpers and curls into herself. 

Geralt crosses his arms and the girl retreats even more. Julian shoots him a sharp look. 

“Look, we just want to bathe and rest and we’ll be on our way,” he starts saying in the calmest and friendliest way he can. “You’re not even going to notice us here, we swear. Right, Geralt?”

“Right”

The girl reluctantly accepts the coins. “Third room on the left. I’ll tell my ma to prepare you a bath,” she says and her voice is so small it hurts Julian. After spending twenty-two years as a famous and loved bard he’s having a hard time getting used to being feared and scorned again. Geralt must have noticed this because he places a hand on Julian’s shoulder. It’s a gesture that releases the tension he didn't even realize he’s been holding. 

“Come,” says Geralt. “We need to talk.”

* * *

They don’t talk. At least for a while. They eat their lukewarm stew in silence and when the barmaid signals them that the bath is ready they move to their room. 

It’s as if they haven’t been apart a day since the mountain; one helping the other bathe comes as natural as breathing to both of them. They must have done this thousands upon thousands of times the decades they’ve spent traveling the continent together. 

Geralt is being especially careful with Julian, washing his back slowly as if afraid to break him. This irritates Julian to no end. Yet he also finds himself enjoying the brief and gentle touches. The silence is comfortable as it should be. It’s only disturbed by Geralt’s breathing hitching every time the washcloth touches one of Julian’s scars. 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt says, moving to look Julian in the eyes. “I’m sorry for all the awful shit I told you on the mountain.”

“Oh, so I’m not the one shoveling shit on you?” Julian mocks.

“You’re not. I am.” Geralt takes a deep breath and Julian can swear he can see him biting his lip in thought. “You’re my best friend. You’re the only person I trust with my life. And I was an ass all this time we were traveling together”

“You were.”

“I’m sorry.” There are tears on the white-haired witcher’s eyes.

“Come here, you big oaf.” A very naked Julian gets up and leans to hug the other man. 

“Ja-Julian! You’re naked!” Geralt growls and Julian can swear he can see the tiniest hint of pink on the other witcher’s cheeks.

“I am” he hugs Geralt tighter. “Maybe you should have thought of this when you started this conversation before I was done bathing.”

"Hmmmm."

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck you are amazing darlings ♥️  
> Thank you for all the kind comments ❤️😊
> 
> You make my quarantine days brighter! 
> 
> Also, apologies for the shortness of this chapter  
> I contemplated on waiting to post it tomorrow so all of the boys' talk is in this chapter but it was too good of a point to not leave it here


	12. Scars and histories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tender.  
> We finally learn something from Julian's past

Geralt fidgets with the shoulder seams of the shirt he just wore. It’s one of Julian’s old shirts beige and soft and frilly and it smells so much like him. So much. But it’s too tight and uncomfortable around Geralt’s slightly wider frame. After a while, he huffs in defeat and turns his attention to the bard --  _ No, the witcher, _ he corrects himself. Said witcher wearing naught but baby blue silken pants; a relic from his illustrious bardic days, now its only purpose as sleeping attire. It saddens Geralt. 

Julian has probably caught him staring because he asks “Do I have something on my face?”

“Yes”, Geralt blurts out and immediately regrets it. “I mean, since when are you...”

“A witcher?” Julian completes the question and Geralt nods. “Woooh! I’m not quite sure. Since the day a witcher of the School of the Bear claimed me? I was around four or five. Or should I count from the trials and on?” he stops for a moment to think. “Anyway, longer than you, that’s for sure.” 

That’s a lot of information to process. For once, the man in front of him is older than him. And a witcher of the School of the Bear on top of it. He’s never met a Bear witcher before; their school perished way before the Wolves’. The one thing he knows about them is that they are said to be bloodthirsty savages and loners, a picture the polar opposite of Julian. But then again, human rumors never were accurate.  _ Or kind, in that matter.  _

“Why didn’t you tell me?”, he asks and maybe he sounds a bit too hurt. Julian’s face morphs in guilt, eyes glimmering under the low candle lights.

“I never expected to return to this life,” he says simply, his voice low, barely a whisper. “It was a curse. One I never meant to break, one I sort of inflicted upon myself. Mind you I thought it was a simple glamor initially.” 

“The bracelet.” Geralt says nonchalantly and Julian nods in surprise. “It was odd you never took it off” he explains. 

“The bracelet was odd? Not the fact I didn’t age a day for two decades?” Julian cocks an eyebrow and lets out a soft chuckle. Geralt is dumbfounded and slightly embarrassed as he never noticed. Which leads to a laughing fit from Julian’s part and a very angry pounding on the wall from the patron residing in the room next to theirs. There’s a long stretch of silence before he continues, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” he says softly.

“I would have done the same in your position.” Geralt smiles softly. It’s true, given the chance he would abandon the Path and start raising and training horses never looking back. He found that horses were so damn less judgemental than people, but that’s beside the point. 

Julian scoots closer to Geralt and hugs him again. “Thank you” he whispers. 

They remain like this for a while, neither of them willing to break the hug. Geralt is the one that breaks it eventually, moving a little bit away hesitantly. He examines Julian’s facial scars again. The long pinkish and silvery lines that divide his pretty face unevenly. He silently wonders what the stories behind them are.

“You’re staring, Geralt.” Julian shoves him gently with his elbow. “You want to know how I got these scars, don’t you? But you don’t want to pry. I know you Geralt. Fine! I’ll tell you.”

“I didn’t say anything”

“You’re forgetting you’re an open book to me Geralt,” he grins and leans closer to the white-haired witcher.  _ Beautiful.  _ He holds Geralt’s hand and leads his digits to his face, tracing the scars. Geralt lets him without uttering a word. He starts with the ugliest one; the one that cuts his lips in two and shows his incisors, “Siren”, he says softly. “Totally my fault, she was too pretty and I, well you know how it is.”, he laughs softly and Geralt feels butterflies dancing in his stomach. He attempts to hide this unknown and unfamiliar feeling with a roll of his eyes. Julian now moves Geralt’s hand to a scar that starts from right below his left eye and ends on his jaw. “This is from some shit bandits I encountered the first week on the Path. The first week, Geralt! Talk about luck!” He leads the hand to the last silvery line; it cuts through the previous one horizontally and stretches from his left ear all the way to the bridge of his nose. Julian’s breath hitches on the touch and his brows furrow. “The good folk of Metinna”, he says, his eyes not meeting Geralt’s. He lets Geralt’s hand fall from his face.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me.” Geralt can tell there’s a tragic and possibly traumatizing story behind this. And well, considering the treatment he got when he went to Metinna to search for his bard… He’d say it’s at least comparable to the Blaviken incident, if not worse.

“No. I think it’s time someone knew.” Julian says shaking his head, his golden eyes glistening with unshed tears. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, “There were vampire killings in town, they hired me to hunt them down and I did. It was two Katakans disguised as children that had sneaked their way into a Viscount’s family”, he stops for a moment to gather his thoughts.

There is so much pain in his eyes that Geralt can practically taste the salty smell of sorrow in the air. It unsettles his stomach as he can tell where this is going.

“They thought I killed their children. They wouldn’t believe they were vampires. They wouldn’t Geralt”, Julian’s voice breaks, “The big bad evil witcher kills their children for fun. The whole town chased me, tried to kill me. I barely escaped with my life.” he chokes down a sob, “Julian, the Childslayer of Metinna. Quite a fitting name don’t you think?” he mocks his voice dripping venom. 

_ Fuck.  _ It’s worse than he anticipated.

“You’re a good man, Julian.” He wipes a rogue tear that escaped Julian’s eyes with his thumb. He weighs the next words carefully, “And evil is evil. They would have found another problem to blame you for, even if all went well and they had believed you.”

“I know”, Julian’s voice is barely a whisper. “I know.”

More often than not, it sucked being a witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore you guys <3 Thanks for being so utterly amazing!


	13. Damnit Julian!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they fight side by side~~~  
> side by side~~~
> 
> -canon typical violence  
> -canon typical swearing

They end up staying in the inn for a few days, much to the owner’s disappointment. Geralt sleeps for a day and a half, his stay in the dungeon and the subsequent fight with the Nilfgaardian forces having drained his energy completely. Julian has also acquired a new set of cuts on his arms and a hefty, now yellow, bruise on his ribs from when a soldier tackled him amidst a fight. So they tend to their wounds and rest as much as the night terrors allow them to. 

They pack up their things and leave at the crack of dawn one morning when they’ve deemed they’ve healed enough and Geralt has regained his strength. They gather their horses from their respective stables, paying the stablehands a handsome amount of coin for taking good care of their girls.

They try to pay no attention to the village folk who are greatly unsettled by the presence of not one but two witchers. They hear whispers about the fall of Cintra, the slaughter of thousands in the hands of the black-clad soldiers and more importantly of the escape of hundreds of its residents. They speak of refugee camps to the east and the north. Many are making their way to Sodden in an attempt to outrun the Nilfgaardian horde.

Geralt shares a look with Julian. Unspoken words flow between them and they head east. If Cirilla is alive that’s where she’ll be going. 

They ride east for several days, only stopping for the night to rest. Julian’s (thankfully) back to his old self, babbling endlessly about this and that, rhyming when he’s bored and whistling melodies when there are no more words he can speak. Geralt listens -- really listens -- to all the stories Julian tells. Some stories are about remarkable contracts he had taken on the past, some --which are always accompanied by a longing sigh-- are from his days in the Oxenfurt Academy of Arts where he’d spent the past 22 winters when Geralt would hole up in Kaer Morhen and wait for the snow to pass. 

However, Julian’s always silent when they encounter people on the road and leaves most of the talking, that is asking for the whereabouts of the princess, to Geralt --much to Geralt’s disappointment. Of all the times to stop talking... _ Seriously. _ They meet some merchants and farmers on the way but none of them knows or has seen the princess. However, they also encounter several Nilfgaardian search parties and if that isn’t an indicator that the princess is alive and outside Nilgaard’s clutches Geralt doesn’t know what is. There’s still hope then. 

At some point, they fall at a slow pace. Julian raises a hand signaling that something’s foul at play up ahead. Geralt can smell it; the rotten scent of dead bodies mixed with human sweat. 

They approach carefully. It’s an abandoned, or more accurately slaughtered, refugee camp amongst the woods. A man is moving the bodies of the unlucky people that thought they could outrun the army of black and gold.  _ A grave robber,  _ Geralt thinks. 

“Ill winds follow a grave robber”, he finds himself saying, judging the man before them.

“Uhm… Geralt I don’t think--” Julian starts hesitantly but is cut off by the man.

“If I was a robber, I’d be taking their belongings, Butcher. ”  _ Butcher.  _ It stings. He hasn’t heard that title in quite a long time and it’s all thanks to Jaskier and his songs, he now realizes. 

“If I was a butcher, you’d be among the corpses” he retorts.

“Geralt!”, Julian hisses.

“I was going home to my family,” says the man in a mildly annoyed tone, “when I came upon these poor souls. Cintran refugees. Dead at least a week.” Geralt could most definitely smell that. “Now they’re a feast for the crows.”

_ Necrophages.  _ The word jumps into Geralt’s mind. His nose is rarely wrong. And neither are the flies gathered on the site.

“They’re not crows” he hears Julian say behind him. So, he smelled them as well. Geralt grunts in agreement. 

“Wolves?” asks the man, slightly scared now, his brows furrowing.

“No”

“With both of you helping I could move quicker”, says the man continuing to drag corpses into a big pile.

“ _ You _ should probably gain some distance quickly”, says Julian dismounting his horse. “Unless you aspire to become yet another meal for these...” he sniffs at the air, “Ghouls? Or is it Alghouls, Geralt? I can’t tell.” he draws his silver sword, medallion shining in the low moonlight.

“Ghouls” Geralt responds in a low growl and draws his silver sword as well, jumping to the ground. Roach whinnies nervously and retreats cautiously.

The ground shifts beneath the man’s feet at that moment. He yelps in surprise as he’s being thrown to the ground by an unseen enemy. The ghouls have grabbed the man’s legs and are dragging him through the leaf-covered dirt of the forest. Before they can take a bite out of him, Julian is upon them cutting off their long spindly arms with a slash of silver. 

Geralt helps the man up to his legs. “Go home” he growls.

“I can help.” responds the man panting.

_ Fucking seriously?  _ Is the man completely stupid?

“One bite and you’re dead.” Geralt hisses through clenched teeth.

“Or you!”

He can’t believe his ears. There are two fucking witchers here.  _ Two _ . They can take care of some fucking ghouls. 

“Get on the cart, my good man.” Geralt hears Julian say. “Get on the cart and wait. More beasts are hiding in the underbushes.” His voice is cold and commanding and the man does as he’s told. 

The earth shifts again and now they are surrounded by a vicious pack of ghouls.  _ They are too many _ , Geralt thinks. Even for two witchers, they are too many. 

They get entangled in a violent dance, cutting ghoul after ghoul while evading their bites and their claws. The ghouls numbers never seem to dwindle. They cut down one and two seem to appear out of nowhere. 

Geralt is immersed in the fight when he hears Julian yelp and fall to the ground, several bony clawed hands digging through the hard leather of his boots. He immediately leaps towards Julian, completely forgetting about the three very nasty ghouls he’s been trying to slay for a good while. With a precise thrust of the silver sword, he turns the ghoul heads to shashlik. 

Alas, one of the ghouls he left behind him jumps on him and digs its nasty teeth on Geralt’s arm. To which Geralt turns quick as lightning and cuts the foul beast in two. Julian, still on the ground casts Igni to the remaining two stunning them momentarily and with a swift acrobatic movement accompanied by a heavy swing of his sword he ends them. Geralt can’t help but stare in awe. 

It’s done. It’s over. The woods are silent once more.

The man they saved, rushes to them thanking them for saving his life.  _ If he wasn’t so damn stupid he wouldn’t have needed saving in the first place,  _ Geralt mentally complains. __

“I don’t have the coin to pay you,” says the man.  _ Fuck…  _ Geralt can tell where this is going, ”I can offer you the law of surprise instead, witchers.”

Before Geralt can decline he hears Julian’s voice. “We accept, my good man.”

“Damnit Julian!” he hisses. 

And then as the adrenaline leaves his veins he feels a sharp pain on his arm. He feels his body falling to the ground and everything becomes dark. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are amazing and I don't deserve you <3 
> 
> btw. Shashlik is a Slavic type of skewered meat food (very eloquently put) 
> 
> Also, also, I dunno about the fight. I feel it could have been written better, but i suck at writing action as I hadn't much practice with it.


	14. And the tears fall, they fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AnGsTy Julian.  
> also Yurga's a good bro

The merchant they just saved is called Yurga, Julian finds out. The Bear witcher tells himself to be nice and memorize the name but chances are he won’t remember it in a couple of minutes. Right now he has more pressing matters to attend to. For once, the love of his life is lying unconscious due to a ghoul’s venomous bite. Geralt’s sweat is beading on his forehead and dark circles have already formed beneath his eyes. And gods, he’s so pale; it’s as if he’s made a cocktail of all the different witcher potions and drank it. Not that Julian, knows this from experience. 

Julian is rummaging through Roach’s and Dung-Beetle’s saddlebags, throwing out everything that doesn’t resemble a potion bottle. Spare changes of clothes, books, and dried meat, all fly in different directions. They must have some bloody antitoxin somewhere. They must. Geralt can’t die for Melitele’s sake. Not when he has so much more he wants to tell him. 

Eventually, he finds a small and almost empty bottle of the lifesaving potion tangled between the sleeves of an undershirt. He silently prays it will be enough to bring Geralt back from this state of near death.

He opens Geralt’s mouth and carefully administers the meager drops of the potion. The white-haired witcher’s expression appears to relax, but the dose is too small and there’s still a chance he won’t make it. 

_ He will survive, he has to. _

Yurga, -- Julian is surprised when he recalls the name -- insists on putting Geralt on his cart and bringing him to his home. He swears his wife will have some herbal remedy, a salve of some sort, to help combat the poison. It will be difficult to keep Geralt safe by fastening him on either of their horses so he accepts Yurga’s offer. 

He quickly gathers their previously discarded belongings stuffing them randomly in the saddlebags. They’ll tidy them later when Geralt awakes. His stomach twists with uneasiness.  _ He will awaken,  _ he chants to himself.

Julian helps Yurga attach their horses to the cart and when he’s calmed the anxious Roach (she must be feeling her rider’s distress) he hops on the cart himself to keep an eye on Geralt. 

* * *

  
  


It’s been but a few hours since they started their travel, but it seems like days to Julian. Geralt’s condition seems to have worsened, the man is pale as a sheet and his eyes unresting, moving rapidly beneath closed eyelids. 

“I can’t lose you,” Julian whispers, a quiet sob escaping him, ”not when we just found each other again, my love. I can’t lose you. You have to be strong.”

“Jaskier”, Geralt’s voice is weak. It breaks Julian to see him like this.

“I’m here, my love.” The sound of his voice seems to calm the white-haired witcher. He’ll keep talking then. 

Jaskier cleans the sweat from Geralt’s forehead with a clean piece of cloth he found in one of his bags. He’s burning up.  _ That’s not a good sign.  _

“Just a few more hours master witcher,” Yurga says, “he’ll make it.”

“Will he?”, Julian’s voice cracks. He hates how weak he sounds in front of the stranger. Witchers are not supposed to sound like this, they are not supposed to show feelings.  _ Heck, they are not supposed to feel at all, yet here they are.  _ It's moments like this he wishes the rumors about them were true. 

Geralt tosses and turns, his brows settling on a frown. A terror seems to be plaguing him. He calls for Jaskier a lot, but there are also other names mixed in. Julian makes out a few from the incoherent babbling.  _ Vesemir, Borch, Eskel, mom…  _ Oddly enough Yennefer’s name is never in the mix. Petty and completely inappropriate as it may be, a little part of him feels pleasure that the witch is not in Geralt’s poison afflicted mind.

Julian keeps talking soothing words to Geralt in a low voice, keeps caressing his hair and cleaning up the sweat. And it helps calm the witcher for a while. Until it doesn't.

A wild idea crosses his mind.  _ Maybe this could work. _

He reaches for his lute case. He hasn’t touched it in months, he realizes. With every strum of the cords, Geralt seems calmer, as if the pain is lessened.  _ That’s it.  _ Julian hums some tunes at first, hesitating to sing in front of the merchant, but soon drops every inch of reluctance and starts singing softly. 

He sings a lot of his repertoire, even songs he knows Geralt hates (Hey, he might annoy him so much he might wake up just to tell Julian to shut up). Yurga joins in the singing on some of the merrier songs. 

“You have a real talent master Julian”, says the merchant turning to face him. “I didn’t know witchers could sing.”

“Thank you Yurga. And there’s a lot the good people of the continent do not know about witchers”, he hums. “Alas, I don’t know of another witcher as musically inclined as myself.” Julian bows theatrically and Yurga lets out a loud laugh at this.

"What folk say about your kind is all poppycock. Never believed those nasty rumors one bit."

"In all honesty, people and their rumors can suck on a sylvan cock for all I care" Julian sings and flashes a fanged smile at the man and he Yurga laughs again. 

"You'd make a fine bard, Witcher" the man's words are genuine but Julian can't stop the ache they cause. It's too soon, it's still a sore spot for him. He tries his best not to show it, to hide it beneath a wide smile.

"In another life perhaps." He says softly unable to prevent the longing in his voice from escaping, "Because in this one and with this ugly mug? At best I could get some stale bread thrown upon my lovely person. Thank you very much but I'll pass." 

Geralt tosses again, a low rumble in his chest rising. His breath is hitching. He’s in so much pain.  _ Fuck.  _ They don’t have long, they have to get him some proper antitoxin. Tears gather on Julian’s eyes. It’s the first time he sees Geralt in such a state. He feels helpless. His grip on the lute tightens and the instrument releases a strangled sound. 

“Fuck, Geralt. Don’t you dare leave me alone again.” he cries. “I wrote you a song you know… That day on the mountain. It’s silly now, after all this time, but I wanted you to hear it. Give me that chance, please Geralt, please my love...” With trembling hands, he adjusts his grip on the lute and positions his digits on the chords. 

“ _ The fairer sex, they often call it…” _

His voice breaks and ugly sobs escape him during the performance of  _ Her sweet kiss.  _ He has no doubt he sounds horrible but he still presses on. 

“ _ I’m weak my love, _ ” the tears are running freely now, “ _ and I am wanting _ ” His chest feels heavy and even though the sun is shining brightly now, the world around him seems to have lost its color. 

“Fuck.” Geralt grumbles and his eyes meet Julian’s. Julian’s too stunned to move. 

Geralt looks like he’s reaching for something in his boot. Julian almost chokes when he sees what it is; a potion bottle. 

_ A bloody potion bottle.  _

The white-haired witcher downs its contents leaving a smidge to pour on the festering wound on his arm, the liquid sizzling and foaming upon touching his skin. Geralt sighs in relief and tries to lift himself in a sitting position.

Their eyes meet once more.

“Why are you crying?” Geralt asks. 

Julian can feel his mouth gaping so he snaps it close smacking his lips on the process. He takes a deep breath. “I thought you’d bloody die on me, you whoreson! ” he almost shrieks, “Why in all that is good and holy did you hide the antitoxin there, Geralt? WHY??? Do you know how worried I was? I thought I would lose you forever this time, Geralt! We still have--”

There’s a hand on his mouth suddenly so he does what any rational being would do. He bites. Hard.

Geralt yelps. 

“ _ Jaskier! _ ”

Julian doesn’t correct him. In fact, he fixes his gaze on a particularly interesting spot on the cart. 

“Promise me you won’t bite me again, Jask.”

“Why?”

Geralt groans. “Just promise me this.”

“Alright, Alright! I yield! I promise I won’t bite you, Geralt of Rivia, the white wolf of Kaer Morhen, friend of humanity, blah--”

Julian makes an incoherent sound as soft lips smash against his, awkwardly. But at the same moment, it feels that they fit perfectly together.

The kiss doesn’t last long, but for Julian, it feels like the earth stopped moving and he savors every bit of it. He refuses to let go, a hand grabbing Geralt’s head and hungrily pulling him closer for a deeper passionate kiss. 

Geralt pulls away softly from the embrace, resting his forehead onto Julian’s. He hums.

“I heard your last song”, he says softly. 

“Only that?” Julian teases.    
  


Geralt shakes his head. “I also heard you profess your love to me several times”, a lopsided smile forms in his face. “It wasn’t a dream.” It’s not a question.

“It wasn’t.”

“I love you too.” 

It’s four simple words, yet Julian can feel his whole existence melting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my word <3 I can't thank y'all enough for the kind comments!
> 
> It's a rainy day here (the 5th in a row), and I spent the whole day heavily emotional which thankfully found an outlet on this chapter.   
> I hope you enjoyed it <3


	15. Little Swallow twice surprised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Ciri!  
> Julian is being Julian  
> Geralt is amused  
> Yurga and wife are confused

Yurga’s cottage is quite modest, Julian might say. Not tiny like most of the common village houses, but not too big as to bring unwanted attention to the merchant’s family. It’s located right next to the woods of Sodden and it would be quite a picturesque sight if it weren’t for the ominous black smoke rising in the distance. He can feel it in his gut it’s nothing good. It reeks of chaos. 

Julian’s never been particularly good at magic but even he can tell that this much chaos means a shit-ton of mages. And mages, they are volatile and often irrational beings and that’s too much trouble for his liking. Well, the sooner they get their surprise and leave the better. 

He hopes for a dog, or maybe a cat. Though a dog would be much easier to manage with all the constant traveling and what-not. A dog would also be a good friend for Cirilla, not to say that a cat wouldn’t. Maybe the princess likes cats better than dogs? Hmmm… 

The sound of Geralt jumping out of the cart brings an end to his daydreams. For a moment he just sits there looking at his witcher running towards the forest, but soon he can feel it too; the pull of destiny. He runs after him and can hear a confused Yurga shouting at them to come back. The words barely register; something about claiming their surprise and then something about their stuff that litters his cart.

Julian has a hard time following Geralt. The other witcher is a lot faster than him. Damn that heavy armor. Maybe he should consider exchanging it for a lighter one in the next town they visit. But he thinks it’s quite chic and a fuck-ton more intimidating than Geralt’s and it’s less likely for people to try and swindle him out of his hard-earned contract money. He feels the weight of the almost empty coin pouch hanging from his belt. They should probably get themselves a contract soon.

Anyway, where was he? Ah, yes. Chasing Geralt through the woods. 

_ Damn, that’s a nice ass.  _

_ Focus Julian, focus! _

Geralt stops running all of a sudden and Julian almost tackles him to the ground, unable to adjust his speed in time. 

“Melitele’s tits! What did you stop for!”, Julian exclaims. 

He looks over Geralt’s shoulder and then he sees her. She’s the spitting image of Pavetta. Princess Cirilla, the lion cub of Cintra. She’s dirty and shaken, her eyes drifting between the two witchers. 

“Geralt?” she asks and her voice is so small, so scared. She closes the distance between the White Wolf and her, pulling him into a hug. 

“What, no hug for little old me?” he asks jokingly in an attempt to lighten the mood. “You wound me, princess.”

She studies him puzzled for what seems an eternity. “Jaskier, is that you?” she finally asks, confusion painted in her emerald eyes.

Julian nods and hums, “It’s me, although I go by ‘Julian’ now, little swallow.”

“Moussack always said you were a world-renowned bard. He never mentioned you being a Witcher.” Ciri retorts and he can see those big green eyes of hers filling with so many questions.  _ So this is their child-surprise, huh? _

“Can’t a man be both the best bard to have ever walked the continent and an unbeatable Witcher?” 

“Humble as always” Geralt grunts.

Julian does not pay attention to his love’s unkind words and moves closer to hug both Geralt and Ciri. 

He hears Geralt’s gruff rumble rising to his throat before he speaks. “ _ Julian. _ ” He can mentally picture the white-haired witcher rolling his eyes. 

“Yes love?” he sings next to Geralt’s ear.

“You’re suffocating us.”

He realizes he’s been hugging the both of them too tightly. “Oh right, sorry, sorry.” He pulls away from the hug carefully. “Well, at least you are now eligible to say that you’ve survived a bear hug.” he muses.

“What.” both Ciri and Geralt say in a monotone voice simultaneously.

“Because I’m a Bear Witcher,” he starts explaining but it’s apparent the joke’s lost on them, much to his disappointment. “Ugh..nevermind. You’re no fun.”

Geralt tilts his head lightly and a tiny smile forms on his usually stoic face. Julian has only seen this happen a handful of times throughout the years. The white-wolf is amused. Well, that goes straight to his  _ I-managed-to-make-Geralt-laugh  _ book. (Even though let's be honest, Geralt would never ever laugh from a joke.)

“There is this person that appears in my dreams...” Ciri starts saying suddenly and both witchers turn their heads to face her. “Who is Yennefer?” she asks.

_ Oh shit. _

“I forgot about Yennefer of fucking Vengeberg!” Julian exclaims and Geralt looks at him quizzically, brows furrowing.

“You know her?” Ciri asks. 

“Ugh… We do.” Julian responds and turns to look at Geralt. “I completely forgot and she’s going to be so mad! She wanted me to find you and tell you that she found a way to get rid of your stupid wish and she needs you to do it.”

Geralt hums in response. It’s a neutral hum, Julian notes. It somehow calms the uneasiness in his stomach which is caused by the bitter reminder of Geralt’s obsession with the witch. Geralt loves  _ him _ , he reminds himself, not Yennefer. 

At that time Yurga and a blond woman, who is probably his wife, arrive. “I see you’ve claimed your surprise Witchers”, the woman says smiling at them. “Yurga told me all about saving his life from those monsters. We’ll always be thankful.” She addresses Ciri next. “Fiona, these nice men have claimed you-”

“Through the Law of Surprise” Ciri cuts in. “Twice,” she adds her lips tugging slightly upwards as she does so. Julian can’t hold his laughter from escaping.  _ Of course, destiny would give them the same child-surprise twice.  _ Yurga and his wife’s expressions are priceless. They are just standing there, mouths agape and rendered utterly speechless.

“It seems it was destiny’s will to find you,  _ Fiona, _ ” Geralt says, a slight amusement noticeable in his voice. Did Julian hear right? The mighty Geralt  _ fuck-destiny _ of Rivia called on destiny? Was the world about to end? Or was his witcher still feverish from the ghoul’s poison? Quite honestly the latter was a more plausible explanation.

“All’s well then master Witchers!” Yurga speaks up. “Would you perhaps like to join us for food?”

“That’s kind of you my friend,” Julian flashes him a toothy grin, which unnerves Yurga’s wife a touch but she does her best to hide it beneath a polite smile. “I’m afraid we can’t though. We have places to be, monsters to slay, blah blah, you know, the usual witchering stuff.”

Julian shares a look with Geralt. The stench of chaos is starting to get suffocating; it stinks of Nilfgaard’s handiwork. The sooner they leave the better. They can’t jeopardize the princess’s safety any longer. 

Ciri grabs his arm. “Where are we going?” 

It’s Geralt that answers. “Kaer Morhen,” he says simply like it’s supposed to be a fact.  _ Guess what Geralt! It isn’t! _ Is he even allowed to bring a witcher from another school to Kaer Morhen? 

“I’m sorry, I might have missed it, but please remind me when did we discuss this again,  _ love _ ?” he drags the last word on purpose.

“It’s going to be winter soon. Kaer Morhen will be safe for  _ Fiona _ ” he presses. Julian doesn’t want to admit it but he knows the other witcher is right.

“But first, we need to find Yennefer.” Ciri chirps in. They both turn to look at her in surprise. “She needs to come with,” she adds and that leaves both men even more confused.

Julian sighs audibly. “Let’s go find the witch then. Do you want to ride Roach or Dung-Beetle, little swallow?”

Ciri makes a disgusted face and Julian laughs.  _ That’s right.  _ She doesn’t know he’s speaking of their horses.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'aaaaaaall! Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos and support you are showing this fic! 
> 
> Shout-out to StarsInMyDamnEyes that wrote an amazing witcher!Jaskier fic: [Death to the Details](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364571/chapters/55979926)  
> y'all check it out, it's so well written and interesting <3


	16. Lips silken soft, ambrosial, divine. Lips that know to melt a heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is hurtin'  
> Ciri's a perceptive lil kid  
> Jaskier is a badass witcher
> 
> -violence  
> -brainz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys make my quarantine days brighter <3 thank you! 
> 
> Apparently I'm abhorrently bad at poetry but I tried my luck anyway.  
> Hope y'all enjoy this chapter  
> surprisingly it's the longest chapter to date, counting more than 1.7 k words  
> Anywhoooooo  
> *finger guns* enjoy!

It’s been a week since the two witchers and their child-surprise left Yurga’s cottage. They’ve been carefully avoiding busy roads until they’ve crossed a safe distance from Sodden hill and whatever destruction happened there. 

Ciri never complained one bit that she was tired from camping out in the wilderness, but Geralt knows the look on the girl’s face. She’s been on the run since Cintra fell and who knows what she encountered on her way. The details are still lost on them since the girl wouldn’t utter a word when asked about it. She got a haunted look in her eyes --they were so empty-- and stayed dead still, barely breathing, for an indefinite amount of time, reliving an unknown terror. Julian and Geralt made an unspoken promise not to bother the girl after that. She will tell them when she is ready. 

The days might be physically tiring, but it’s the nights that are the worst. Every night the princess wakes up crying and the two witchers take turns in calming her down, putting her back to sleep. Sometimes it works and sometimes she remains awake and shivering for the rest of the night. 

Geralt has never been particularly good at comforting words, or words in general. But somehow, Ciri has taken a liking listening to him describe various monster hunts. Whereas, much to Julian’s disappointment (Geralt could smell it, though the other witcher would do his best to hide it), she didn’t seem to care at all about his witcher adventures. She would always ask the former bard for a lullaby and he would happily provide it. 

Geralt would always wait for the princess to fall back to sleep, even if it was his turn to be sleeping. That’s when he first heard her call Julian by his bardic name and he never corrected her.  _ Jaskier.  _ It was the name Geralt longed so much to call his... lover? Lover-friend? Man?  _ Fuck, it sounds strange. _ Maybe he’ll go with ‘man’, at least it sounds better in his head than the rest.  _ But not better than ’Jaskier’,  _ his mind helpfully provides _.  _

He wants to call that name. He wants to look deep into the, now, not cornflower blue, but golden eyes of the man he loves with all his being. He admits, it took him a while to get used to the new color, but in the end, he finds that they are the same eyes he fell in love with. The way they convey joy and sadness and love is all the same as it’s always been. Gods, he loves those eyes. He regrets that it took him so long to become aware of it.

He can’t help but feel a smidge of envy towards the princess. He knows he shouldn’t and that it’s selfish, especially considering what the girl has been through (and continues going through). Yet he can’t help it. Every time he calls his bard by his former name he gets scolded for it. But what’s even worse is that when that happens Julian’s face falls on a frown that lasts for hours at times. It’s fucking unfair.

_ At least he can call him Jaskier in his mind.  _ It’s a small comfort but he’ll take it.

And every damn time these thoughts resurface Geralt does his best to shut them down. To keep his stoic face and focus on the more pressing matters at hand, such as their rations running low and the need for a proper bed to rest. Not for him of course. Geralt can survive for months on end on rabbits and even rats, sleeping on hard terrain and never speaking to a soul (well, maybe that last part is a lie.) Jaskier and Ciri, on the other hand, crave civilization. And that’s a fact clear as a day to him.

That’s why it’s imperative they reach the closest unoccupied by Nilfgaard town soon. Though with his empty coin purse --and he has a feeling Jaskier’s isn’t doing any better-- it’s going to be tough.

He silently wishes for a contract. He’s not picky, even a small pack of drowners would be fine; the coin they will provide will be undoubtedly meager, but at the very least they will be able to afford a new change of clothes for the princess. That teal royal cloak of hers is going to get them unwanted attention eventually, and attention is the least they need right now.

\--

They are nearing the town of Kagen that lies just across a marshy meeting point of Yaruga river and several smaller streams coming down the Amel mountains. Haern Caduch, the Bear School headquarters, is said to be located somewhere amongst the snowy peaks of the Amel mountain range. Geralt’s gaze lingers on the snowy peaks and he suddenly becomes very interested in learning about Jaskier’s life there. If it was anything like growing up in Kaer Morhen -- which he’s sure as fuck it was -- he decides it best to spare the Bear Witcher the unnecessary questioning. 

Kagen is just a half day’s walk, even less if they ride the horses. Right now though, the mares have tired from carrying them on their backs all morning. So they walk beside the horses, slow but steady. They’ll arrive in the town just shy before nightfall. 

Jaskier’s been mumbling a new tune for a while now. It needs a bit of work, but it will no doubt become a catchy ballad. Geralt catches a few lyrics here and there and feels a slight heat rising to his cheeks. 

_ ‘Like two suns, they burn bright and hot _

_ Like silver shine locks of hair highlighting lovely suns _

_. _

_. _

_. _

_ Lips silken soft, ambrosial, divine _

_ Lips that know to melt a heart’ _

Jaskier’s song is about  _ him _ . It’s not like the bard hasn’t written any other songs about Geralt, but they were mostly about his ‘heroic exploits’ as the bard had dubbed them, never about his person. If Geralt’s heart could beat any faster he would be beet red by now. Thank fuck it can’t.

The composition of the ballad comes to an abrupt stop and the silver-haired witcher curses at every god there is. He turns to look at his bard. The man has stopped moving completely, scanning the area with those clever cat eyes of his. 

“Hm? What is it J-” he starts but Jaskier brings a finger to his mouth, signaling to keep quiet. 

Geralt smells them before he hears them. Drowners. Seems like his prayers for a bounty were answered. 

“Careful” he whispers at Ciri, who’s been walking beside him the whole time. 

Jaskier flashes them a smile. It’s not a sweet smile though; it’s a feral, excited smile, all fangs, and anticipation of a fight. He rubs his hands together and tilts his head to the side. 

“Stay with Ciri, my love,” he says in a low voice, “I’ll take care of this.”

Geralt nods in response. Who’s he to deny Jaskier the hunt? The witcher’s clearly itching for it. 

“Can we watch?” Ciri tugs his arm and whispers the question in his ear. Geralt contemplates the pros and the cons and while his instinct tells him to stay back and protect the princess, his heart really wants to witness the fight.  _ Hmmm… _

In the end, he decides the princess will be safe by his side wherever that may be; safely away from the fight, or close enough to see it. And if Jaskier needs help disposing of the drowners he’ll be close enough to help. 

“Keep close,” he whispers and the girl does as she’s told. 

Jaskier is walking slowly and steadily a few meters ahead of them, silver sword strong and unwavering in his hands. They follow cautiously to prevent any noise that would startle the drowners. They can see them now; they are five of them, munching on the rotting corpse of an unfortunate reindeer. 

Geralt lifts Ciri up and places her on a big rock that lies on a relatively dry patch of land. It’s got a good view of the river and it’s unlikely the drowners will reach them this high up. He climbs too and sits next to the girl. He glances back at the horses, who seem to be minding their own business, dining on soft grass.  _ Good. _

Meanwhile, Jaskier has sneaked behind the drowners who are still devouring the corpse and haven’t noticed a thing. That’s very impressive considering how fidgety the creatures (normally) are and how heavy and clanky Jaskier’s armor is. 

Jaskier forms Igni with his hand and two of the drowners burst to flames. Their screeches alert the other three who are now clawing their way to the witcher.  _ Smart move,  _ Geralt acknowledges with a slight nod of his head. 

The brown-haired witcher backsteps swiftly and brings his sword in a defensive position. He kicks at the drowners in front of him, their claws barely missing his face. Two drowners screech as silver meets their flesh and burns it. One of them has been cut in the middle and it’s body now lays limp on the ground. 

Geralt can’t help but stare in awe. Ciri clenches her fist tightly and moves closer to Geralt. He can smell the fear on her but her eyes never leave the battle studying it carefully. She’s a strong girl, she’ll make a damn fine witcher if she wants.

Jaskier incapacitates the remaining two creatures shooting Igni at them and slicing them with his sword as they’re running about trying to put out the magical flames. He then relaxes his body and proceeds to harvest the brains of the things for potion-making. 

It’s when the first brain leaves its residence that Ciri audibly gags at the sight, averting her eyes. Her emerald green irises meet Geralt’s golden, who is still enthralled by the man before them. 

There’s one word in his mind,  _ Gorgeous. _

“I know that look”, she says softly, “it’s the same look grandfather Eist had when he looked at grandma.”

Geralt turns to look at her eyes wide in surprise.

“You love him, don’t you?” she continues.

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond. Of course, he loves him. But will the child even understand what it means? Is she going to think it’s weird? Will she want to stay with them? He frowns and doesn’t answer. 

“You do,” she says beaming and a smile so warm and genuine forms in her face that makes all fears and doubts vanish from his mind. “And he loves you too. Don’t worry, he’ll let you call him Jaskier in time,” she giggles a childish laugh. 

_ Fuck.  _

His child-surprise is onto him.


	17. Toss a coin to your witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian burns an unfortunate man with his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I want to thank you all for the love and support you're showing this fic <3 
> 
> Smallish chapter this time, work was brutal this week and I didn't have a lot of time to write sadly  
> I am very much excited for the next chapter though! Because a character from the books I love dearly is going to make an appearance! Can you guess who it might be?   
> (hint, it's someone both Jask and Geralt know and like a lot)

Kagen can by no chance be considered a city. It’s a town at best, counting not even a hundred small stone houses. The streets are paved and it’s a refreshing change from walking on muddy soil for over a week. Maybe his boots will finally dry off, Julian thinks as he shakes his legs to get rid of the horrible cocktail of mud and drowner blood that adorns his footwear. 

The sun has sunken low in the sky, painting the world with beautiful oranges and pinks. The people of Kagen are still out and about, minding to their chores silently, or just conversing happily with each other enjoying the last rays of the sun. As the two witchers and their child-surprise progress further in town the townspeople drop their idle chatter to look at them. The rotten stench of fear and a deafening muttering of profanities fill the air. It’s understandable, but still. Julian will never get used to it.

He clenches his fists till his knuckles are bone white. The sack that contains the drowner heads feels awfully heavy all of a sudden. It doesn’t help that the further in-town they go the worse the stench gets. He hates it  _ so much _ . It takes Geralt nudging him softly with his elbow to repress the tension he’s feeling. 

They split ways at the town square, that’s littered with half tidied up stalls where you can find anything from food to ornaments and knickknacks. They can look at them tomorrow when they’ll be well-rested and hopefully heavier with coin. Right now, Julian is going to find the mayor and collect a reward for disposing of the drowners (thank Melitele, there was a notice of a contract on the town’s noticeboard! He’s not in the mood to argue with whatever minor nobility governs this town, thank you very much). As for Geralt and Ciri, they are going to get something (hopefully) palatable to eat in the ‘Green Brewery Inn’.

* * *

The mayor’s estate is easily discernable, being the only big house atop the lonely hill which Kagen is built around. It helps that it’s the only two-story building of the town as well. Julian takes long confident strides and reaches the thick wooden door quickly. The less time is wasted here, the more time he’ll have to enjoy a nice evening at the inn’s tavern with his beloved -and adoptive daughter of course, though it’s still to soon to call the princess that. And if he remembers correctly from the last time he visited, they serve an exquisite local honey-wine in the tavern.  _ Definitely a big bonus, that. _ The more the reason to be done swiftly with the contract. 

To Julian’s annoyance, it takes several long minutes until the door is finally answered by a middleaged balding man dressed in fine olive green silks that do not complement his waxy complexion at all if he might be so bold. The man, presumably the mayor, is wearing a permanent scowl on his face that becomes worse once his eyes meet the witcher. 

_ Ugh...This is going to be fun. _

“Got rid of your drowner problem,” Julian says blankly and offers the man a peak in the blood-soaked sack full of brainless drowner heads. The man audibly gags and that reaction brings a tiny bit of joy to Julian.  _ Ah, nobles and their sheltered upbringing. It is enormously fun to shock them. Always. _ And as a bonus, this usually gets him more coin.

Not this time though. The man quickly regains his composure, straightens his back and brings his nose up to appear superior.  _ Fucking great.  _

“Very well,” the mayor says pompously and reaches for a velvet violet pouch fastened on his black leather belt, “Here is your payment,  _ witcher, _ ” he spits the word as if it were a particularly moldy piece of bread. “80 Silvers”.

_80._ Bloody. _ Silvers. For five drowners? That- that waxy goose wrapped in moss!  _ This is by far the stingiest price that’s been offered to him during his almost century-long witcher career. Aldermen of backwater-middle-of-nowhere villages offer at the very least 120. Not to mention that the contract, which he’s now holding out for the parsimonious man to see, says 160 Silvers. 

“As much as you’d like it to be true, I am not illiterate” Julian hisses, “Here it says 160 and 160 are what I’m getting.” There is no way he’s leaving without them. Even if he has to stand there and argue the whole night he will get the Silvers he’s owed. Ciri’s wellbeing depends on it after all. And yes, he might also want to share a proper comfy bed with Geralt, but is he to blame? They have not had a chance to even hug this past week and he’s rightfully cranky.

“I can and will call the militia on you, witcher! It’s your word against mine.” the mayor mocks and Julian can feel his blood boiling. 

“Oh really?” Julian smirks tiling his head slightly on the side. “Tell me, mister mayor, how will your ten measly guards fare against two witchers? Or will the good people of this town join in the fight?”

“Two witchers?” the mayor looks at him in disbelief. 

“Precisely, mister mayor. My partner, Geralt of Rivia, is at the moment we speak securing us a room in your town’s best inn.” 

The man is silent, gaze fixed on the ground and calculating his chances. From the look on his face, he seems to recognize Geralt’s name and all that comes with it. He wants to appear unphased and call a bluff but Julian can smell the fear on him. 

“Oh by the way,” Julian says casually, the smirk never leaving his face, “it so happens we also got rid of your ghoul problem some days ago. You know... the one in the trade route... by the forest...”

“How much do you want,  _ witcher? _ ” the mayor gnarls through clenched teeth. 

“160 Silvers - won’t charge you for the ghouls, so I expect some basic human decency to be shown to us during our stay. Oh, and your clothes if you please.”

“You can’t be serious.” the man’s eyebrows furrow. “I cannot give you my clothes, witcher!”

Julian hums. “I’m being serious about the coin and basic respect. What use do I have for this doublet; this color and style went out of fashion decades ago. Do yourself a favor and throw it away please.” 

The man just looks at him flabbergasted. He reluctantly counts the silver coins and hands them to Julian, who happily accepts them with a genuine smile. 

“Happy doing business with you,” Julian says cheerily and waves a quick goodbye. 

With a pouch heavy on coin, he sets his course to the meeting place. Hopefully, they’ll have some of that nice venison stew he had there five years ago. He’s practically drooling at the thought.

He can’t help but hum ‘Toss a coin’ throughout the short way to the inn.


	18. Little eye (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are just two dorks in love, what can I say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all make my days brighter!  
> Thanks a ton for all the nice comments and support you're showing this fic! 
> 
> I hope you like this chapter!  
> A bit of fluff, because I'm like that mood (trademark symbol)  
> Enjoy <3

It was a nice feeling, spending time in a proper town. Julian didn’t realize it at first but he’s missed it; the manmade view of stone houses, the noise of life, and yes even the stench of it. For over a year, he avoided big settlements, spending more time on the road than anywhere else, the rare stay on a godforsaken’s village inn more of a bother than a blessing. 

It is different this time. Kagen, while by no means a big town, is full of life. Yes, sure people still fear him and it does bother him, but this time he isn’t alone. Geralt is here with him and they have their child-surprise, who by the way is a very intelligent little girl --he’s going to teach her so much about music!-- and they’ll all spend a nice relaxing evening in a respectable clean inn. His walk is almost a skip and a jolly tune is escaping his lips. Does he get weird looks? Oh, yes. Does he care? Not in the slightest. 

After all, he got the coin he came for and he’s just a step away from the “Green Brewery Inn”. Just a step away from a nice meal and the company of his new family (if he may be so bold). He hopes for a night in the arm of his beloved, though he knows this is not likely to happen with little Ciri there. They can’t afford two rooms and, well, even if they could, would it be wise to leave the poor girl all alone for the night with Nilfgaard so close by? The answer to that is a strong no. 

Julian leaves these daydreams in the back of his mind for later and crosses the door. The rich smell of alcohol and cooked meat fills his nose and he can barely stop himself from drooling. The tavern is moderately full. There is a trobairitz playing her lute --beautifully-- at the tavern and Julian chokes down the ache in his heart he gets from hearing her perform.  _ It’s fine _ , he tells himself. _ It’s fine, you have Geralt and Ciri. You don’t need this.  _

Except he knows he does. His very soul is aching to perform in front of a crowd again, to be exalted by the masses, to sing and dance together with other people freely. 

Maybe Yennefer will be willing to give him a glamour when they finally find her. Or maybe she won’t because she hates his guts. Well, that’s not true. He knows she doesn’t hate him. And he doesn’t hate her either. If anything the snidey remarks and the back and forth of insults was always a fun game to him. Anyway, he’ll have to take the gamble and ask her. 

He sees Ciri waving cheerily for him from a corner table deep in the tavern. His heart fills with warmth and a smile forms in his face. Despite all, there’s still the light of joy in her, it’s small for the time being but it’s there. The kid deserves a good life and he’ll make sure she gets to have a chance to have it.

“Jaskier you’re back!” Ciri says smiling at him, “We got you the best soup I’ve ever eaten!”

“Thank you little swallow” Julian smiles back at her. “I bet it’s delicious!” He takes a spoonful to his mouth. It’s scrumptious. Just like he remembers it.

“You’re late” Geralt grumbles, but he can’t hide how his eyes light up when they meet Julian’s, “Was the mayor, a pain in the ass?” 

“Ugh… Don’t even get me started!” he groans. Geralt hums, a tiny smile forming on the white-haired witcher’s lips.

“Let me guess. He wanted to pay you half what’s written on the contract.”

“You’ve met the man before,” Julian realizes. He narrows his eyes. “You bastard! Why didn’t you warn me?”

Geralt just shrugs in response but his eyes give away that he didn’t bloody say anything because he thought it would be fun.  _ That gorgeous bastard.  _

“For the record,” Julian starts saying as he puts the coin pouch on the table for his companions to see, “I got the whole 160 Silvers.”, he looks at Ciri now, “We’re going clothes shopping tomorrow Fiona!” The girl clenches and shakes her fists excitedly and Julian pats her softly on her ashen hair --which has seen better days and needs a proper cleaning with soaps and calming oils and a lot, a lot of brushing. They’ll need to order her a bath after they’re done eating. 

“Impressive.” Geralt says in response to the coin acquisition. “I only managed to get 30 coins less than the agreed-upon amount last time.”

“Well, my dear, you do not possess my exemplar conversational skills,” Julian smirks at him.

“True.”

“Neither my nonpareil threatening aura,” he smirks harder.

Geralt snorts a laugh.  _ How adorable.  _ “Jules, be serious.” Ciri snickers at this and Julian pretends to be deeply offended. He brings a hand to his chest and gasps theatrically.

“How dare, the both of you! Madness I say! Madness!”

Ciri is full-on laughing now. Julian realizes that’s the first time he sees the girl so carefree. It warms his heart. 

He wolfs down his food after this, idly chatting between the bites with the princess. And surprise, surprise even Geralt chimes in a couple of times and with whole sentences at that. If that’s not progress Julian doesn’t know what is. He’s sure that if it were just the two of them Geralt would just fall back to his usual grunts and hums. He’s really trying for the girl. It’s kind of sweet. 

At some point, the music has stopped but Julian didn’t pay it any mind. Or more accurately, he is so focused on the conversation between the three of them that he stopped paying attention to his surroundings completely. In retrospect, he should have because he finds himself surprised in a headlock of a hug. By the way, Geralt is invested in gulping his ale down the strange person is not a threat. And possibly someone they both know.

“Jaskier”, a familiar female voice chirps. Cold sweat runs down Julian’s forehead. 

_ Oh. _

_ Oh, no. _

The woman releases the hug and brings a chair to sit next to him. Julian doesn’t look at her, his eyes fixed in a particularly interesting spot on his wooden bowl. He feels her breath as she leans closer to him. 

“Jaskier, Geralt! My two favorite people! Fancy meeting you here, long time no see!”

“Essi, good seeing you”, Geralt nods a greeting, “This is Fiona, our daughter.” he pats Ciri’s shoulder awkwardly and Ciri smiles politely.  _ Our daughter,  _ Julian feels a tiny bit of warmth rising to his cheeks.

Julian remains motionless, unable to utter a word. Essi Daven, one of his closest friends, a great trobairitz and a brilliant person. A person that didn’t know of Julian’s witcheriness. A person, who saw him, the real him, and did not even bat an eye at it. He does not know how to respond; he actively avoided towns if he heard an acquaintance of his was currently there because he did not want to deal with being recognized.  _ Because he didn’t want to be rejected. _ And yet, Essi was here and she continued acting normal around him?

Essi nudges Julian and he finally looks up to meet her gaze, the always one brilliant blue eye, the other hidden behind a mop of curly blond hair. “You finally did it you rascal! You got your man and your child-surprise!”

If he could blush, you bet your arse he would be right now. 

“Little Eye” he mutters her nickname, his voice quivering. She goes for a headlock hug again. 

“Did the curse-breaking take away your conversational skills Jasky?” she jokes. 

“How- When- You knew?” he finally says, yellow eyes wide in confusion.

“Relax Jaskier, you told me ages ago. Don’t you remember?” He shakes his head.  _ When?  _ “Well, of course, you don’t. We were shitfaced drunk in Oxenfurt when you told me. After the big poetry contest, which Valdo fucking Marx won, only because he stole your idea.”

“Valdo bloody Marx,” Julian hisses. To this day he was still bitter about the contest. That third rate talentless oxen crap! He vaguely remembers tossing pots at the bloody copycat and then the ingestion of what’s presumably an unhealthy amount of vodka mixed with ale. How is he even alive after that?  _ Well, it doesn’t matter _ , he shrugs the thought away. “Did he finally get apoplexy and died?” he asks, perhaps a bit too full of hope. 

Geralt chokes on his drink on that. Ciri just looks confused and Essi is laughing loudly.

“I must disappoint you, dear friend, for Valdo is very much alive. Balding and in need of spectacles, but alive.” The image of a balding Valdo - a Valdo who was very proud of his raven locks- is outright amusing to him. He smiles mischievously. 

“I’ll take it, it’s good enough.”

_ Hey, it’s the small wins that count.  _


	19. Little Eye (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essi is the best sis
> 
> tw: brief mention of an epidemic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much much love from rainy town <3

Julian is delighted to be talking with Essi again, after almost four years not having seen each other at all. The woman, in her mid-thirties now, has barely changed aside from slight crinkles in the corner of her eyes, the almost invisibly thin laughing lines and the neatly covered smallpox scars that cover her skin. So the rumours about the epidemic in Vizima were true. Julian is glad the woman survived with only scars to tell the story. He's heard how frightening and unrelenting the disease can be. She’s still her cheery old self and evidently in good health and that's what matters.

“Geralt,” she calls leaning forward on the table, “Do you mind if I steal your bard for a bit?”

_ Wait. What? _

Geralt just shrugs in response. “Sure, take ‘im.” Essi claps her hands at this. There is a shared look between the white-haired witcher and the trobairitz.  _ What are they planning?  _ Julian raises an eyebrow. 

“Listen,” whispers Essi so conspiratorially it’s obviously suspicious behavior to any onlooker. “Go to the second room to your left. “I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.”

Julian furrows his brows. “Why?”, he whispers in a voice just as low in volume as hers. 

“Just go Jaskier,” Ciri chimes in the whisper-conversation. And Geralt nods affirmatively.

_ Oh. Brilliant. _ They are all in cahoots with each other and only he has no idea what’s going on.  _ Of course. _ He must admit though, he is intrigued, so he does as he’s told. 

What awaits him when he enters the room, is well, just a simple room really. A twin bed with nice reddish woolen blankets and a matching single bed on the opposite wall of the spacious room. A baby blue doublet and matching pants are lying neatly folded on top of the twin bed. Travel gear, saddlebags, and equipment are neatly put away against one of the walls. 

_ Ah _ , it’s not Essi’s room. It’s theirs. He’s surprised that Geralt, with his nonexistent social skills, could get them a nice room without paying in advance for it. On second thought, Essi most likely helped him out. 

Well, he might as well remove the armor now that he’s here. The thing is not meant to be worn during a casual town stay. It’s too heavy, too bulky. 

He removes the iron shoulder guards and arm guards first, the top leather vest comes next followed by the heaviest of the gear; the chainmail tunic. He gently piles the armor on the floor in an empty corner, putting the twin swords and the crossbow on top of it all. Man, it feels good being able to stretch his arms. 

With a plop, he falls on the bed. He runs several hundred scenarios through his head of what the trobairitz wants to tell him, but none of them really makes sense. Well, maybe she just wants to catch up in private. That seems plausible enough, right? He runs his digits on his medallion’s flower etching in an attempt to calm his dancing thoughts. 

Essi enters the room after a little while with an ornate cloth bag in her hands. 

“Oh good, I see you removed that hideous thing,” she smirks. 

“Excuse you! My armor is lovely, thank you very much.” he moves from lying on the mattress into a sitting position. 

She smiles at him and hums, “Now strip,” she commands. 

Julian raises a brow at her before assuming what is probably his smuggest expression. “Oh la la, Essi Daven! How bold! I know no sane person can resist my natural charm, yet I must disappoint you for I am taken.” Essi rolls her eyes at his antics which leads to both of them laughing obnoxiously. It’s like a contest really; who will laugh in the loudest and most obnoxious way. They used to do this quite a lot back in Oxenfurt.  _ Ah, nice simpler times.  _

“You dork,” she says between laughs, “You know very well I have no such interest in you.”

“I know,” he smirks. “I get, you want me to wear the doublet?” She nods. “Trust me, it’s not a good idea. People don’t like their witchers fancy.”

“Oh hush, no one’s going to know you’re a witcher when I’m done with you.” she grins at him and empties her bag on the single bed. Lots of small jars and bottles fall out of it, each labeled in a different color. There’s also a nice silver comb and a masquerade mask between them. And is that a crimson hat, with a heron’s feather attached to it, he spots beneath the jars?  _ Curious. _

“Come on Jasky, we don’t have all night! The patrons want to be entertained! Change your clothes please, lest you want to perform with monster blood adorning your pants.”

_ Perform?  _ The word makes him giddy. Can he really do that? Is it going to be alright to do so? He makes his mind to trust Essi; she’s always been exceptional at costumery and presentation. And, well, if something goes wrong they can always bolt out to the next village. Not that he’d like that. He really looks forward to going shopping with Ciri tomorrow. 

So he changes his clothing, the fine blue silks feeling warm and familiar against his scarred skin. 

Essi sits on the bed beside him now, fiddling with his hair. She’s probably thinking what she can do with it. She ends up removing his hairband and combing thoroughly the bird’s nest that his hair has become. “Let’s leave it down”, she says, ”it’s a nice length, it looks good on you.” 

It feels good, being taken care of. 

She moves to his face next, cleaning it carefully with a wet cloth despite his protests that he can do this himself. There’s no winning against the woman though, and Julian eventually just lets her do her job. She applies some sort of smooth lavender smelling paste on his skin.

“I can’t do miracles,” she says softly, “but with the mask, I think no one’s going to notice your witcheriness, Jasky. Look for yourself.”, she brings out a small handheld mirror for Julian to see. 

The scars on his face are not as obvious as before, reduced to thin lines that match his skin tone. Of course, Essi is not a mage and cannot bring back the missing part of his lips, but the result is very impressive all in all.

“Thank you,” Julian says softly. 

“Try the mask.”

He does so and is surprised to find that the shadows cast by it on his golden eyes dull the unnatural color so that it can now pass as a very human light honey brown. Of course, his pupils are still slit like a cat’s but no one is gonna be able to tell, given they don’t come face to face with him. Which, while it’s not an unlikely thing to happen, it’s something he can control to a degree.

“Now all that’s left to do is find a new alias”, he thinks loudly. 

“Isn’t Jaskier a fine name?” she questions genuinely. 

“It is, but people can recognize this name. They can recognize  _ me _ , Little Eye. And if something goes to shit, I’ll be forever known as that abominable witcher that pretended to be a famous bard! Or, worst-case scenario, people connect the dots that I’m the same person that wrote all those epic ballads- which of course I am- and stop liking my songs! I can’t do that!” the words fall too quickly from his lips, anxiety settling in like a bad old friend. 

“It’s alright Jasky, it’s alright,” she tries to calm him, “I’ll introduce you...” she pauses to think for a moment, “I’ll introduce you as Dandelion, my younger half-brother. No one will question  _ me. _ ”

Julian snorts a laugh. He guesses he does look younger than her right now. Even though he’s three times her age plus some more years.

“Alright, let’s do this”, he says cheerily, anticipation for the performance boiling in his veins. It’s been so long, too long since he’s performed for a crowd. Ideally, he would have liked to have some more time to actually rehearse playing with Essi, but they’ll make do. 

His eyes land on the crimson hat once more. “Wait a moment”, he says and reaches for the hat and proceeds to wear it. “Perfect. Now we can go.” 

“You look ridiculous with that hat”, says the trobairitz chuckling. 

“You mean, fabulous, _ dear sister. _ ” he retaliates.

“Yes, yes,  _ fabulous _ , of course. Not silly in any way.” she jokes.


	20. Oh Fishmonger, Oh Fishmonger...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time for the performance my dudes.

The constant murmur in the tavern is deafening for Geralt’s sensitive ears. When music was playing he could use it as an anchor of sorts, focusing on the melodies to tune out the noise. Now, he can catch hushed conversations from the other side of the room. He can hear the general distrust towards his person, but more importantly towards Jaskier. It makes his stomach churn with anger, but for the princess’ sake, he does not act on it. 

Ciri’s eyes are heavy, fluttering open once in a while as the sleep pulls her closer. She’s tired and it would be best for her to get a good night’s sleep, for once. 

Geralt nudges her softly as her eyelids start to fall again. “Let’s get you to bed, hm?”

She opens her green eyes comically wide in response and straightens her back, that had started to slump. “But I haven’t heard Jaskier perform yet!”, she complains, “I’m not tired Geralt!”

“Sure, you’re not”, he hums. “Fine, you can watch the show. But if you’re tired let me know, alright?” she nods in response. 

“They’re late”, she states.

“You’re just tired,” Geralt says softly and explains, “it has been less than half an hour. They are coming.” He can smell them entering the crowded tavern hall. He can hear the soft sounds Jaskier’s lute emits when it brushes against his thigh as he walks. That, somehow, fills him with anticipation. 

It was sheer luck that they’ve stumbled upon the trobairitz. The woman had seen them enter the town and surprisingly recognized the ex-bard-now-witcher. She approached Geralt at the tavern, way before Jaskier returned from the mayor’s estate. That’s when they struck the plan to get Jaskier to perform again. It was undoubtedly a risky move, but Geralt would move the earth if needed to see his man’s face beam in the type of glee only a performance could give him.

“They’re here!” Ciri claps her little hands excitedly. 

Essi is leading, climbing atop an empty table strumming her lute to get the patrons’ attention. The movements remind Geralt of Jaskier, theatrical and over the top as they are.  _ No wonder they’re such good friends with Essi.  _

Jaskier, on the other hand, is approaching the trobairitz carefully, nervousness apparent in his movements. Geralt almost chokes on his ale when he sees him. Essi did a fantastic job hiding his non-human features. He looks beautiful. Except for that ridiculous hat. The bloody thing is hiding a big part of those brown locks he loves so much.  _ Fucking hat.  _ Geralt decides he hates this hat.

“I have exciting news, my good folk of Kagen!”, she announces in a bright cheery voice and all eyes immediately fall on her, “My younger brother is here tonight to join me!”, she extends a hand to Jaskier who takes it and steps on the makeshift stage as well, “Please, welcome Dandelion!”

The crowd cheers, more for the oncoming celebration than Jaskier, but still, Geralt can see how the bard’s eyes light up and a big smile forms on his face. Seeing that smile is worth all the money in the world. It makes butterflies dance in Geralt’s stomach and he feels his lips curl up involuntarily. Their eyes lock briefly and Jaskier smiles even wider. It melts Geralt’s heart.

For the first couple of songs, Essi leads with singing and Jaskier supports her with playing his lute. Soon the bard joins the trobairitz in singing, reluctantly at first -Geralt can tell- but then, as all fall into place, the exchange of lyrics between the two musicians becomes more frequent, more fluid. 

Ciri is watching the performance completely enthralled by it, her tiredness having vanished within the first song. 

It’s when ‘The fishmonger’s daughter’ starts playing, the entirety of the tavern’s patrons joining in with dancing and singing, that it crosses Geralt’s mind that the songs from now on will only get less appropriate for a child. Hell, this particular song is already extremely inappropriate for the child. Said child is clapping her hands on the rhythm and mimicking the singing under her breath. 

Geralt shoots a look at Jaskier, who’s singing gleefully about fucking with a puck. He mouths the bard’s name and points subtly to the princess. Jaskier must have noticed him as he swiftly changes the lyrics to a more child-friendly version. ‘Fuck’ becomes ‘dance’ and Geralt can’t help but snort at this.

They play heart-wrenching ballads next, of heartache and longing. The crowd mellows down, returning to their drinking and silent conversations. Geralt has heard most of the songs in the past, yet there is one that Jaskier sings by himself that he alone recognizes. Jaskier looks at him throughout the performance of the song, his eyes never leaving Geralt’s own. 

It’s the song he was composing the past few days. It’s the song about him. Geralt feels warmth rising to his cheeks. 

It’s when the instrumental part of the song comes along though, that Geralt’s heart is completely rendered to liquid. 

“I love you” Jaskier whispers in a voice so small only a witcher could discern the words. “Thank you, Geralt, my love.”

When the song ends Jaskier -or rather Dandelion- announces that he’ll retire for the night. This earns him a lot of semi-drunk people begging him to stay for one more song. By the way, the bard’s smirk grows in his face, Geralt can tell he’s enjoying himself very much. Relishing on the pleads of the audience.

“Alright, alright, one more song,” he pretends to give in to the crowd’s demands. Essi is unable to contain her chuckle by his side. 

“What do you say we sing ‘Toss a coin’, dear brother?” she suggests mischievously. This earns them a round of cheers and applause from the patrons. 

_ Not this blasted song again.  _ The last time Geralt heard the song it’s been stuck in his brain for a whole month. He sighs. Oh, well. He mentally prepares himself for the earworm to come. 

Jaskier grins back at her and turns to the crowd. “Why of course, dear sister!” he turns to look at the white-haired witcher and winks. “It would only be appropriate.”

Geralt feels the gaze of several tens of drunken patrons on himself. 

_ Damnit Jaskier. _

Jaskier strums his lute’s cords in the familiar tune.

_ Here it comes.  _

_ ‘When a humble bard…’ _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I know I said this before, but DANG! you make my quarantine days brighter <3 Thank you so much for commenting and kudos-ing this fic! 
> 
> So, this concludes the Essi saga  
> and with the next chapter we're back at the road again (almost, I certainly hope so, but that depends on how lengthy the shopping therapy scene gets) 
> 
> If you think I have a plan for this fic you're unfortunately mistaken haha  
> sure I have some ideas and a general direction I'm heading  
> but 99% of the time I'm just winging it 
> 
> anyways! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> Ps: i did a little portrait of [Jaskier's disguise](https://www.instagram.com/p/B-nR3l3l_jH/?igshid=k9v88txl3yyf)


	21. Clothes and Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping therapy yay

Warmth. 

Julian wakes up when the first rays of light find their way to his face. While he's not usually a light sleeper, he finds himself well rested for the first time in months. He sluggishly opens his eyes and gently turns over to look at Geralt’s sleeping face, relishing the sight. Last night’s memories flood his mind. He can still feel the swell in his chest, the music in his bones from the performance. What a beautiful bastard his witcher is. 

He stays like this for a while, facing the white-haired witcher, his back to the sleeping Ciri. The girl for once did not wake up screaming this night, exhausted from the celebration. It’s nice, seeing them both so calm and serene. Their steady heartbeats and soft breathing music in his ears. 

He scuttles closer to Geralt, slowly and carefully as to not wake the man before he intends to. He’s now a breath away from his face. He feels his witcher’s warm and rhythmic breath softly brushing away the loose strands of hair from his face. Julian moves closer still and places his lips in the spot between Geralt’s brows. Geralt stirs slightly but does not wake.  _ How rude.  _ Julian intended to wake him with a surprise kiss. Maybe he should try the lips next. And so he does. Geralt still doesn’t wake up and Julian suspects the white wolf is in fact very much awake and just pretends to be asleep to get more affections. 

_ If it’s affections he wants... _ Julian glances at Ciri, who’s still fast asleep in her bed.  _ Good. _

Julian moves an arm above Geralt’s sleeping frame and directs his hand to the witcher’s lovely bottom. He squeezes. Hard. 

Geralt’s eyes fly open wide in alarm. Julian does not, in fact, move his hand away from the nice squishy spot. 

“ _ Jules! _ ” Geralt hisses under his breath, low enough as to not wake the princess.  _ Jules,  _ he likes the sound of the nickname. It provides a sense of intimacy he’s longed for in a long long time.

Julian hums softly in response.

“What if Ciri wakes up?”, Geralt whispers.

“Relax, Geralt. We’re not committing a crime here. It’s just a bit of innocent fondling of your marvelous ass.” Julian responds in a voice just as low in volume. “Beneath heavy blankets, if I might add.” 

“Innocent,  _ right _ .” he mocks. ”Innocent and you, don’t-” he gets cut off from Ciri’s loud yawn. 

They two witchers stay frozen for what is barely two seconds but seem to them a lifetime. Julian swiftly removes the naughty hand from its resting position and turns around to have a view of the girl who’s now sluggishly rolling off her bed, hitting the wooden floor and apparently staying there staring at the ceiling. “Good morning” she finally says, turning her head to face them.

“Good morning Ciri” Julian calls softly, “Is the floor to your liking?” she nods softly in response.

“Cirilla, get off the floor.” Geralt’s hoarse voice is heard behind him. “It’s dirty.”

Geralt of  _ I-don’t-take-a-bath-unless-I-have-monster-guts-on-my-hair _ Rivia is talking about a dirty floor.  _ Right. _

* * *

The three traveling companions -well, refugees really- make their way to the inn’s tavern hall. Geralt is adamant about both Julian and him wearing their armors when they go to the town market. He makes some pretty good points on Nilfgaard being really close and how it’s safer that way. Julian, on the other hand, does not want to wear his armor at all. Sure, he understands the importance but still. He wants the freedom of movement that comes with wearing a shirt and not a huge chunk of metal. He nags and complains until Geralt agrees on letting him leave the inn if he at least wears his leather vest.  _ Not a bad deal at all. _

Julian moves to the bar, where the owner, a strong-looking woman well over her forties, is looking longingly outside the window. Julian can’t help but linger on the fact her cheeks are slightly flushed.  _ Ah, love.  _ It’s beautiful seeing people in love. It never fails to make sweet lyrics flow in his mind. He doesn’t want to startle her so he coughs lightly to make his presence known. She sighs and turns her attention to the witcher. 

“Goodmorning,” he says cheerily, “We’d like to pay for the lodging and baths.”

A smirk forms in her face as she regards him. That’s never a good sign. 

“10 Silvers,” she says and Julian raises an eyebrow at her. From what Geralt informed him earlier it should be 14 Silvers plus some coppers. “Oh, don’t ya look at me like that, witcher. Or should I say  _ Dandelion? _ ” she whispers the last word. 

_ Fuck.  _

Waves of panic curse through Julian’s veins, but he tries really hard not to show it. A strangled sound leaves his mouth involuntarily, which does not help his case at all seeing as the smirk on the woman’s face only grows bigger.

“What are you talking about?” he finally says and it sounds forced even to him.

“I wasn’t born yesterday, witcher” she snorts a laugh, “I’ve been on this line of business fer a really long time, I’ve seen odder things,” she reassures, “‘Sides the least I can do is offer ya and the pretty bard lady a small discount fer makin’ folks nigh empty my ale an’ wine supplies.”

“Thank you”, he smiles properly at her kindness and leaves a generous tip in addition to the payment. “Speaking of...Have you perchance seen the pretty bard lady? She wasn’t in her room earlier.” 

“Sure have, She told me to tell you lot,” she gestures at him and then at the general direction of Geralt and Ciri, who are busy devouring some of yesterday's bread, “she’s goin’ to the market.”

He thanks her again.

* * *

They make way first to the stables to leave the heavier of their things with the stable boy. When that’s settled and they are sure they won’t be missing vital equipment when they return they head to the market square.

The first thing they do is trade Ciri’s regal teal cloak for some coin. For far less than it could fetch, but they downplay it as something that they found by chance on the road to Kagen. They pretend they don’t know it’s a masterfully crafted garment.  _ Better play dumb than give away the princess after all.  _ Ciri, for the time being, is wearing Geralt’s black cloak which sits awkwardly on her thin frame. She looks sad as she parts with the elegant teal garment, no doubt because there’s little left to remind her of her life in Cintra. Julian gives her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and leads her to choose some more practical clothes.

Geralt is one shop over to the local blacksmith eyeing intensely a row of daggers and knives, arms crossed and expression menacing. Julian pitties the poor man, who’s trying his best to do his job despite Geralt being so… Geralt. 

He snaps his attention back to Ciri who’s tugging at his sleeve. 

“Did you see something you like, Fiona?”

She just points to a dark green woolen tunic and a set of dark grey trousers.  _ Smart choice.  _ It’s going to be a lot easier traveling in this outfit. Or, even better idea -though he has to check first with the girl- wouldn’t it be easier to hide her from Nilfgaard if she’s disguised as a boy? With shorter hair, no one would question it. That way it also won’t be as suspicious as to why two witchers are traveling together with a young girl. It’s a great idea in his mind, though he has a suspicion that the girl won’t be willing to part with her long ashen locks. 

He shakes away his thoughts for later and pays for the clothes. He also gets her a proper cloak, one with fur lining, warm enough for the winter to come. Though, she doesn’t get much say in this as the merchant only has one piece her size. 

He glances over at Geralt who seems to have finally decided on a plain hunting knife. Julian hopes the other witcher didn’t choose it for the girl, as a dagger would be a million times more practical than a knife, but the budget is short and Geralt’s haggling skills are abysmal. So yeah. He makes a note to get the girl a proper weapon -and teach her to wield it- when they are more… economically stable, to say.

They regroup and find Essi at the instrument maker’s bartering for cords for her lute. Julian thinks to get some for his lute as well, but that is soon thrown outside the window as the shopkeeper throws them out when he sees them.  _ Fucking prejudiced whoreson. _

That’s when a woman comes stumbling towards them, pain visible on her freckled face, and almost collapses of Geralt’s feet. Geralt reacts swiftly though and catches her before she meets the hard paved ground. There’s a look of recognition in the white-haired witcher’s eyes. 

_ He knows this woman, of course, he does. _ By the look of her attire, if Julian had to guess he’d say she’s a mage.  _ Of fucking course.  _

“Triss?” Geralt shakes her gently and Julian is left to wonder who the fuck Triss is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being awesome and commenting and kudos-ing <3   
> Yall have no idea how happy you make me <3 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter even though not much happened because I lost myself on random things again   
> oh well


	22. Alchemical concoctions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss is hurt  
> Jaskier is a fan of plants (and jealous)  
> Geralt is worried  
> Ciri is a good girl
> 
> -mention of burn injury  
> -canon typical swearing

“Triss?” Geralt gently shakes the sorceress who’s lying unconscious in his arms. “Triss, wake up. Please.” She looks weak; her usual warm complexion reduced to a sickly ashy color.

_ Fuck.  _

There’s no time to think about what may have happened to the sorceress. Geralt lifts the woman on his arms and looks around lost. She needs a healer, quickly. 

Before he’s able to shout for it though, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns around quickly, a scowl ready in his face, but as his eyes meet Jaskier’s it subsides.

“Geralt, breath”, Jaskier reminds him. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath. “Let’s find her a healer”, he says softly and turns to the small crowd that has gathered around them. “Were can we find a healer?”, he asks the people of Kagen, his voice loud and clear. 

“I’m here, I’m here,” a young man with fiery red hair wriggles his way out of the circle made of people. “Melitele save me! I turn my back for five minutes and she gets up and leaves!”

So she’s been here for a while. Geralt wonders what happened to the woman. A small portion of his mind is assured it has something to do with the fires in Sodden Hill. 

“Where to.” he practically growls at the man who’s busy still complaining and not looking after his patient. The healer inhales sharply, shoulders tense from the witcher’s presence.

“Where should we take her?” Jaskier helpfully provides and the man seems to relax for a moment only to become even tenser when his gaze meets the Bear witcher’s medallion.  _ Hmmm…  _ it seems that it’s true that humans fear the bears more. The healer reeks of fear -  _ fucking great _ . “Oh, bloody hell! The woman’s clearly hurt,  _ healer! _ Where. Should. We. Take. Her.” he spells the last part out slowly emphasizing each word. 

The man audibly gulps. “R-right. Follow m-me.”

* * *

Geralt carries Triss to the healer’s cottage; luckily it’s located near the market square and they arrive quickly. The place is so full of potions and salves, live and dried herbs hung around the walls, that the smells mix and fill the small room, making Geralt’s sensitive nose suffer. But he’ll take this overflow of scents any day over the putrid smell of fear.

The healer is working methodically, changing Triss’ bandages. The sorceress is riddled in countless cuts and scratches but it’s her arm that looks the worst; a nasty burn spreads from her left shoulder to her elbow. Flesh red and irritated, puss forming in patches. It’s infected. Geralt can tell that the healer has been doing quite a good job subsiding the infection in the past days. It was probably worse when he found her by the Yaruga four days ago. He’d spilled the whole tale without even needed to be asked. 

The healer babbles a lot as he workes - Tomaž is his name - in a way that he reminds Geralt of the early days traveling with Jaskier. Not that Jaskier ever stopped this habit. No, on the contrary. If anything Jaskier’s babbling has become worse with the years. In a good way. _ No, this is a lie. _ It’s just that Geralt started to appreciate it at some point during all these years traveling the continent with the chatterbox of a man.

Speaking of Jaskier, he is, unsurprisingly, babbling. Well, technically, he’s teaching Ciri all about the colorful herbs and flowers that can be found inside the cottage. Their uses, how they can be mixed in witcher potions, which are poisonous if not handled correctly and so on. Ciri is listening excitedly at first, but after a little while, she gets bored but is too polite to say anything to the Bear witcher. Geralt catches her muffle a yawn twice. Poor girl. Though he has to admit, Jaskier knows a lot more about botany than he does. 

Triss now whimpers and trembles and Geralt turns his attention to her again. Tomaž is trying to administer a concoction to her, which smells a lot like mint.  _ Hmmm… a remedy for fever,  _ he guesses. 

The sorceress flutters her eyes open and Geralt flies to her side. 

“Triss,” he says calmly, “What happened?” Triss is still dazed by the fever, her eyes unfocused. 

“Geralt?” she croaks and tries to lift her weight to move in a sitting position. The white-haired witcher helps her carefully despite Tomaž’s objections. “Is Yenna… where is she?”

“Easy Triss, you’re hurt.” he smiles softly at her. And this apparently acts as a way to summon Jaskier next to the cot Triss is sitting on. He doesn’t get a chance to ask again what happened as Jaskier promptly butts in.

“Nasty things those infections. Pray tell lady... Triss was it? A mage, are you not?” she looks at him confused but nods weakly. Geralt raises an eyebrow but lets his bard continue, curious to see where this is going. “Resplendent! I take it you can take a chaos boost potion, as I like to call it, and not die a horrible death?” Triss furrows her brows in response.

“You mean... a concoction made of Balisse fruit,” she pauses a moment in an attempt to focus her thoughts, “... Berbecane fruit, and Celandine?”

“Indeed. Would it help? I mean, I am by no means an expert in magic, but you were in Sodden hill, right? And by the gods did it reek of chaos! Bet my next contract coin that you used a loooot of it.” Jaskier says all this in one breath, way too quickly and way too excited. Triss looks like she’s having a hard time processing his words.

“Jules, slow down.” Geralt says as he pulls the other witcher away from the sorceress’ face. Jaskier clicks his tongue. 

“Oh hush, Geralt. Your lady friend understood me perfectly well.”

“Not a lady friend, Jules. Just a friend”, Geralt rolls his eyes at the assumption. Could it be Jaskier -the very same man that has fucked half the Continent- was jealous?

Jaskier shrugs. “Not my fault for assuming you had a something-something going on. After all, Geralt, you attract sorceresses like horseshit attracts flies.”

_ Yup. Definitely jealous. _

“Anyway…” the Bear witcher turns his attention back to the very confused Triss, “So can your body withstand the potion? And will it help with your magicky magic thingies?” he asks the sorceress again.

“It will help.” She winces as she accidentally shifts her weight to her injured arm.

“Brilliant!” Jaskier claps his hands and turns to face Tomaž, who’s awkwardly standing in the middle of the room “Can I use your equipment and herbs? I saw you have an abundance of the needed ingredients.”

The red-haired man sighs but nods affirmatively. He moves to bring Jaskier the plants he mentioned and points him to the direction of the mortar and the pestle to mix them. “Better not argue with a witcher”, he mutters under his breath, oblivious that both witchers in the room can hear him clearly. 

“Can I help, Julian?” Ciri chirps.

“No, it’s too dangerous.” Ciri’s shoulders slump in defeat. “But you can watch and learn, little swallow,” Jaskier adds quickly, to which the princess perks up, her emerald eyes glimmering with excitement.

* * *

They end up staying in Kagen one more day as Jaskier’s potion needed to sit overnight in order to work. They made a promise to Triss to return early in the morning, to make sure Tomaž won’t accidentally fuck up the dose (Jaskier’s words), though Geralt is pretty sure the man is good at his job if the lively population of Kagen is any indicator. 

They bid goodbye to Essi in the morning as the merchant caravan she’ll be traveling with leaves at the break of dawn. She’s going back to Oxenfurt and Jaskier promises her they’ll visit after the winter’s passed. Geralt is amused to hear them concoct a plan to mess with this infamous Valdo Marx Jaskier hates with so much passion. 

They find Triss looking slightly better - less feverish, at least - when they arrive at the healer’s cottage. Jaskier doesn’t lose any time administering the potion to the sorceress. It takes but a few minutes for Triss to regain her strength and silently cast a healing spell on her burned arm, which starts to mend, flesh piercing itself together rapidly. It leaves a faint scar, but it’s infinitely better than it would have been if it was left to heal in a conventional way. Geralt’s always impressed seeing magic in action. 

“Thank you, Jules -was it?” she says smiling widely. 

“It’s Julian.” he corrects her. “ _ Jules _ is reserved for Geralt and Geralt alone. Well, maybe Fiona too,” he says glancing at the ashen haired girl. Geralt feels the blood rushing to his ears from Jaskier’s bold statement. 

“Well then Julian, I owe you a favor.”

Julian smirks and glances over to Geralt. 

_ Oh fuck. _

“Hmmm, let’s see... ” he moves close to the sorceress ear and whispers. “A glamor to temporarily make me be perceived as a human maybe?”

Geralt sighs in relief. He half expected Jaskier to ask for someone to be stricken with apoplexy again.

“Oh and I think Geralt and I can both agree that we’d  _ love  _ to find out where Yennefer’s holed up.” He says that part out loud. “If it’s not too much, please?”

“I can do both,” she says softly, “I’ve been searching for Yenna myself, before ending up here.” The witcher’s look quizically at her. “After the battle in Sodden hill,” she starts explaining, “Yennefer vanished. She managed to burn down the Nilfgaardian forces and half of the Sodden woods with probably the most powerful spell I’ve seen in my life. But...” her voice wavers, “after the spell she was nowhere to be seen.”

Geralt feels his stomach twist to a knot at the notion that something terrible happened to Yennefer. After all, he still cared about her. With the Wish or without it. 

“Oh, I’m sure the witch is fine. Don’t you be looking so glum, people! It’s the mighty Yennefer of Vengeberg we’re talking about!” Jaskier jokes halfheartedly, though Geralt can tell the other witcher’s as worried as he is. 

“I know she’s fine.” Ciri agrees. “I can feel it.” Triss turns to look at the young girl confused but she does not voice her thoughts. Thankfully.

* * *

Triss’s tracking spell finds traces of Yennefer’s chaos in Vengeberg of all places. That’s where they’ll be going then. It’s still likely that they won’t find the raven-haired sorceress there since Triss is skeptical because the trace is a few days old and very faint. But, they’ll take the chance. 

Jaskier also ends up acquiring an enchanted ring, which Triss warns him wearing it activates a weak illusion that lasts for a few hours. How many exactly she doesn’t know. He’ll have to try it out. Also if this wasn’t inconvenient enough, after each use, the damn ring needs a fortnight to be recharged. It is inconvenient as fuck but Jaskier is genuinely happy with it. Well, to each their own.

With that, they set course to Vengeberg in Aedirn. It’s going to be a long journey, but hopefully, after learning about the battle in Sodden hill, they won’t stumble across any Nilfgaardian search party.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you enough guys for all the nice comments and kudos <3 
> 
> I want to especially thank [ StarsInMyDamnEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsInMyDamnEyes/pseuds/StarsInMyDamnEyes) for an absolutely amazing fanart they did of [my Witcher!Jaskier/Julian](https://stars-in-my-damn-eyes.tumblr.com/post/614953044096024576/witcherjaskier-from-all-the-world-ive-seen)/  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH <3 
> 
> Also, sorry for the late chapter, I am not very happy with it, but it needed to be done so I can continue the story  
> Still, hope you enjoy it :D
> 
> Ah, one last thing. My SO wrote a dark version of Rapunzel the classic fairytale. I'll put a link [ here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544220/chapters/56474209) if you want to read it 😁  
> I proofread the whole story and i might be biased because damnit do i love this man, but i really enjoyed the twist.


	23. All the good girls go to hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sweet angst I've missed you
> 
> Ciri pov :) 
> 
> -violence  
> -nightmares  
> \- mention of dopplers

Cirilla Fiona Elena Rianon wakes up choking down a scream of chaos that was bubbling in her throat. Again. It is Geralt that rushes to her side this time. ‘Everything is alright’ he will tell her. ‘They can’t hurt you’, ‘We will protect you’. He will try to calm her down by telling her of his various hunts. They’re interesting to listen to. Really. Yet, she feels so guilty that the witchers have to go through this routine with her every night; Geralt telling stories and Jaskier singing lullabies. They shouldn’t lose their sleep over her. 

They’ve been traveling together near a month now, for gods’ sake. Every night when they camp out in the wild, every single night, the moment she closes her eyes and lets sleep take her, she sees Cintra burning. She sees her grandmother wounded and so very weak, so very scared. She sees her grandfather lying dead in a field, arrows poking from his lifeless body. Then every time, the scene shifts swiftly and see sees Moussack. No. Not Moussack. It’s the monster wearing the druid’s skin. It snarks and laughs at her, it grabs her, calls her  _ princess  _ and it sounds so vile, so repulsive. Everything changes again and she’s in that field, death spread in a circle around her. That’s always when she wakes up, her power, her voice, begging to be freed. Begging to destroy. This can’t continue. She won’t allow it. 

Sometimes she wishes she didn’t need to sleep. Sometimes she wishes for the sun to never set.

The days are always fine. There’s so much to do, so much to see. She can keep the thoughts locked away neatly in the deepest depths of her mind. It’s easy, really. Her new caretakers? Parents? The witchers anyway are a delight to watch.

Ciri grew up witnessing real love up close. What Calanthe and Eist had was - in her mind - how love looked like. The sweet glances, the laughs, the gentle words. So within the first day she started traveling with the witchers she knows in her heart it’s true love she’s seeing. It’s nice seeing them like this. It’s nice. It’s familiar. It reminds her of her home in a way that does not hurt so much. The good things. The important things. It reminds her of her grandparents in the way she wants to remember them: loving, happy. Not the fires, not the blood, not the army of black and gold. It’s comforting.

Maybe, just maybe she can live like this; hopping from town to town, meeting new faces every day, far away from Cintra. Far away. 

* * *

Geralt has been teaching Ciri how to defend herself with a knife. She’s thankful for the lessons, but she still feels like a burden. It’s not much she can do with a knife. She has her voice, her power, but she swore to herself she’ll never use it. Her stomach hurts at the thought she might accidentally hurt the witchers. She wishes for a sword instead. A sword will help her protect herself better, she argues. Geralt says it’s too soon, a sword is too difficult a weapon to wield. Jaskier disagrees with that. 

One day when it’s Geralt’s turn to hunt their dinner, Jaskier takes a silver dagger out of his boot and gives it to her. 

“Don’t tell Geralt,” he whispers even though Geralt is too far away to hear him. “Keep it close to you, hide it in your boot if you must. It’s not too different from that excuse of a knife. But it’s infinitely superior.”

“I like the knife,” she responds without thought. Jaskier hums smiling softly. 

“Keep them both close, then,” he says, “Maybe we should teach you how dual-wield them. Like the Cats do.”

“I’d like that.” She smiles widely, “Thank you Jaskier.”

* * *

She must be cursed. She must. There’s no other explanation.

They are surrounded by a small army of men. It all happened so fast. One minute they were sleeping soundly next to the campfire -and it was the first time in a long time a dreamless sleep- and in the next, they have swords pointed their way. 

She chokes down the tears that treacherously pool in her eyes and draws her weapons. She stays frozen in her spot though as the witchers, _her parents_ , dance around wildly - armorless - narrowly missing the flurry of blows from the attackers. Her heart is beating so fast. She tightens her grip around the blades’ hilts, her hands are trembling-  _ Shit shit shit shit.  _

Her eyes try to follow the fight unfolding before her. It’s nothing like the hunts. It’s violent to a completely different degree. Geralt slashes and cuts with precision the men before him. But they are armored and he’s not. The same is Jaskier. Only he fights like- like… Ciri doesn’t know the word to describe it. She only knows it’s beyond brutal, it’s- She can barely see the shine of his sword, glistening under the low moonlight dipped dark red in the blood of the men before him. While Geralt aims for vital spots cutting down their enemies one by one, Jaskier slashes severing limbs with such force they go flying in different directions. She doesn't think she'll be able to keep that image out of her head soon. _If they survive._

Their enemies are many still. She quietly wonders if she’s to blame, if they are here because of her, even though their armors do not hint of Nilfgaard’s work. They are too unmatched, too random. Mercenaries maybe? 

She suddenly feels the cold of steel on her throat. Nonononononono! Her breath heaves, her whole body shivers worse than before. Her nails dig into the soft skin of her palms as she grips the hilts of her knives tighter and tries to recall her lessons. She jerks her arm backward in an attempt to stab the man behind her. The knife Geralt had gifted her falls to the ground with a clang hitting a rock.

“You will die here, girl.” the man whose face she cannot see hisses. He presses his blade closer to her.

She feels a scream rising to her throat. It’s bubbling- boiling really- with power. Her blurry from unshed tears eyes catch Jaskier’s and Geralt’s silhouette rush towards her. To her rescue. But it’s too late. She shuts her eyes close, she doesn’t want to see this.

_ It’s too late.  _

_She can't stop it._

The scream is already leaving her lips. She prays to all the gods she knows for her witchers to be spared by it. She can’t lose them. Not like this. Not by her own doing. They don’t deserve this.

The world around her explodes and suddenly she feels nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't deserve y'all <3 Thank you for making my endless quarantine days brighter!!!
> 
> I wanted to change up stuff a bit in this chapter.   
> That's why for the first time ever you get a chapter from Ciri's perspective! Hurray!  
> And it's angsty! because of course, it is! :D 
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3


	24. Aftermath of a very scary scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens (not really)
> 
> warnings: blood and carnage, broken bones and concussions
> 
> enjoy ;>

Julian wakes up at Dung-Beetle nudging him softly with her muzzle. His vision is blurry, the world spinning around him. He shuts his eyes immediately. _Bloody hell._ There’s -- much to his dismay-- a high pitched ringing in his ears that makes him want to puke last night’s dinner. _Fuck._

He tries to get up, but his whole body is hurting. Definitely cracked his collarbone. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck._ He manages to get himself in a sitting position after long unsuccessful tries that leave him dropping to the ground like a sack of flour, damaging his already wrecked collarbone further. The world spinning does not help his tries at all. Quite rude of it to spin so much. 

He sighs. Then he calls on the mare that’s standing next to him. Ah yes. She’s standing next to him. Right. He holds onto her for support as he tries to get on his feet. He takes a deep breath. Now he needs to get to the camp. He needs to get to his bags specifically so he can down a Swallow. He winces as the cracked bone nips at his flesh as he walks. _Make that two Swallows._

It’s times like this he wishes he had slept with all his potions on his person. Though, on second thought, this does not sound comfortable, or remotely safe at all. 

Dawn is creeping up and the first rays of the sun allow him to orientate himself towards his goal despite the constant pounding in his head and his treacherously whirling vision. The camp seems miles away, but in reality, it’s some 20 meters from the spot he woke up. He trudges slowlier than he’d like too. 

The small clearing they had set their camp on the previous day is chock-full on blood and death. Limbs are scattered around unceremoniously. Julian can’t see well enough yet, but he can tell this is not his doing. Well, not all of it at least.

Julian trips on an orphan leg and falls headfirst on his saddlebags. “Fuck!” he groans. He stays like this for a while, too dizzy and in too much pain to attempt anything. He inhales deeply. _Stum, cotton and the scent of morning mist on a cold autumn day._ Geralt is nearby. 

He feels a rough scarred hand brushing the stray strands of hair from his face. The touch feels nice. He vaguely hears buzzing, _words,_ his mind provides. _Ah, Geralt is talking._ The words won’t register though, the ringing in his ears muffles all other sounds. He huffs disappointed.

The gentle hand moves underneath his chest and turns him to his side. The fucking collarbone screams in protest. He opens his eyes reluctantly and the blurry image of Geralt’s pretty face fills his view. 

_‘This will hurt’,_ Geralt’s mouth says silently and Julian nods weakly in response. 

There’s a piercing hot pain that starts from his collarbone and moves in waves to the rest of his body as Geralt puts the bone back to its place in a swift precise movement. Julian can only vaguely hear himself cry, though he can feel the strain in his vocal cords as it leaves his throat involuntarily. 

Geralt brings a vial to his mouth which he identifies as a Swallow potion. He downs the contents without a second thought. 

* * *

Swallow works wonders, as always. Julian’s collarbone no longer hurts as much, though he guesses it will need a week or two to go back to its original state. _Thank Melitele for his witcher mutations._ His ears are no longer ringing and his vision is back to normal. Julian notices Ciri lying unconscious, carnage spread around here in a circle. His brows knit together as worry washes over him. He attempts to run towards the girl but Geralt stops him placing a hand on his chest.

“She’s unharmed,” he says softly. “She… she has Pavetta’s gift.” 

“The poor, poor girl.” It’s the only thing Julian can say and he feels tears welling up in his eyes. 

“I know, Jules. I know” Geralt’s voice breaks and when his golden eyes meet Julian’s, the Bear Witcher can see the pain in them overflowing. _We will protect her._ Those four unspoken words hover between them. 

Julian scans the field. Three heartbeats; his own, Geralt’s and Ciri’s. He’s relieved to find that none of their assailants survived Ciri’s chaos. His family is alive and that’s the only thing that matters. 

“Did you find out why they attacked us?” he asks Geralt, guessing the other witcher had been luckier and was up quite some time before him.

“They weren’t Nilfgaard if that’s what you’re asking.” Geralt frowns and then his face morphs into what Julian can describe as his detective-Geralt face. “I found a letter. Bounty.” alright, that is strange. He expected bandits, but bounty hunters? He can’t think of a single reason why someone would want them dead. 

“Why would bounty hunters be after us?”

“You tell me,” Geralt sighs, “They are after _you_.” His tone sounds a bit too accusatory for Julian’s liking. Not the time for a fight though. He’ll get back at it at a later time. 

“Gimme the letter,” Julian says stiffly. Geralt complies and hands him the bloodstained parchment.

The parchment describes Julian in detail. It has his name, school affiliation, a rather detailed description of his appearance and to top it all, the ridiculous amount of 2000 Crowns as prize money to whoever kills him and brings back his head and medallion as proof. Now, Julian was no saint and he had pissed off a lot of people in the past, but to his knowledge, he’d done nothing wrong since the curse broke. And he doubts this is a twenty-year-old bounty. He surely would have heard rumors during his time as Jaskier.

He examines the parchment closer for a sign who might want him dead so much that they are willing to pay such an exorbitant price. He finds it under a big bloodstain. 

“Fucking hell!” he screams so loud he can probably be heard in the next village over. Geralt arches an eyebrow and Julian is seething, but he does offer an explanation through clenched teeth. “You see this seal, _love_?” he points to the upper right corner of the paper, “This, Geralt, is the seal of my birth-house; the Pankratz seal.”

“ _That_ Pankratz house in Kerack?” he asks disbelievingly. Julian nods. “You’re a noble?”

“Don’t be silly. No witcher is a noble,” Julian scoffs, “But yes, my birth-father was the Viscount of Lettenhove. A hundred fucking years ago.”

“I don’t understand why-”

“Why they want me dead?” Julian cuts him off. He sighs. “If I had to guess, the current Viscount found out about me somehow and feels his or her position’s threatened. Which is fucking ridiculous by the way. I lost the birthright of the title when Ladislav claimed me and I --may I be so bold to add-- have absolutely no bloody desire to get it back.” 

Geralt hums in thought. “We gotta be more careful from now on. And at the first chance we get, we visit your relatives to clear this shit up.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

[ AMAZING Fanart from StarsInMyDamnEyes](https://stars-in-my-damn-eyes.tumblr.com/post/615445108837515264/so-that-chapter-huh)  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all <3  
> I hope y'all are having a wonderful day!  
> keep being awesome **finger-guns** 
> 
> btw. I made this a series, cause I have some ideas for oneshot-mini-fics in this au that cannot be woven into this story  
> I have a fic in the making that's from Valdo's perspective  
> and I am excited to be writing it!!!
> 
> That's all folks  
> hope you liked this chapter!


	25. There is an inn in Rivia that Witchers really like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Ciri angst, a spoonful of Jaskier's sailor mouth and a smidge of concerned Geralt

Ciri does not awake until they are a couple of hours away from Rivia. The sun has long set but the witchers decide not to risk sleeping in the wilderness, lest another unexpected attack is launched upon them. They’ve been riding the horses for way too many hours now and the poor animals are exhausted. They are trotting slowly to preserve energy. 

Julian climbs off his mare to walk alongside her and give her a well-deserved rest— and an apple he cleans with a clean rug and a bit of water from his waterskin. But he’s cut off from the hitching of a breath, the shiver and the frantic heartbeat coming from the princess who’s perched at Geralt’s chest. As if communicating telepathically— by this point, Julian wouldn’t be surprised if they actually did— he and Geralt halt the horses on the spot.

Ciri opens her eyes and an ugly sob escapes her lips. Julian moves closer to her and caresses her grimy, still bloody hair; though they cleaned the majority of the incriminating stuff, only a good bath can remove the rest. He moves to wipe the rogue tears that escape her eyes with his thumb. Geralt hugs her softly and low gravelly hushing noises escape his mouth. An attempt to calm her down, no doubt. Yet, Julian can’t help but compare it with the sounds of an injured animal. Strangely, though, her heartbeat steadies and the sobs lose their strength.

“All is good, sweetheart” Julian smiles.

“You saved us.” Geralt adds and the princess’ crying intensifies. Dam’s broken— utterly destroyed— and the tears fall freely. Geralt’s eyes shoot up and he looks at Julian for an answer.  _ Did I say something wrong? _ The golden eyes say. Julian shrugs.

“You’re alive,” Ciri says between sobs, “You’re both alive!”

“Of course we are, sweetheart,” Julian says softly. He’ll omit the fact that he was at the brink of death when he came to his senses, having been thrown by her blast of chaos many meters away from the camp. Well, he’s being dramatic about the whole brink of death thing, but it’s true he was severy hurt. Anyway, It’s for the best if she doesn’t know. It’s for the best. “We’re witchers! We’re built strong!” he flexes jokingly with both his arms and chokes down the wave pain that starts from his collarbone when he does so.  _ This was a terrible idea.  _ Geralt glares at him and Julian smiles sheepishly. 

Cirilla has stopped crying. It seems Julian’s antics were useful after all. He files the stupid thing he did under the ‘would do again tab’. His collarbone shoots a prickling reminder that it was a terrible idea. Julian ignores it.

“I didn’t hurt you,” she whispers to herself. 

“You could never,” Geralt lies. It’s a good lie, a white lie. But, Julian promises they’ll make those words true. By that of course, he means they’ll help her control her chaos not that they’ll deliberately make her weak. If anything, he’d be immensely proud if she can beat him in a fair fight in the future.

“Really?” she asks.

“Really.” the two witchers respond in sync.

* * *

They reach Rivia when the moon is high in the sky and the stars are shining brightly. They can’t see much of the great city in the darkness as only a few dim lights are on, most of its residents slumbering deeply at this hour. There’s an uncomfortable chill in the air, undoubtedly caused by the heavy snowfall on the Mahakam mountains a day prior. 

They need to get to Kaer Morhen without further delay. Yet, there’s still the finding of Yennefer that needs to be done. The need for her is now bright as day after Cirilla’s violent display of chaos. Julian prays to any god or goddess listening that they’ll be able to find the witch without serious delay. 

“Where to?” he asks Geralt while pulling his hood downward to hide his features as much as he can. He hopes Ciri’s magic obliterated all bounty hunters in the region that are after him. But, one can’t be too careful. Especially with his track record of attracting trouble.

“The non-human district. Here.” Geralt says pointing to the direction. It’s been so many decades since Julian last was in the city that he doesn’t even remember it having a non-human district.  _ Strange.  _ But, stranger things than the existence of such a district happen so he decides not to question it and follows Geralt silently. 

They leave the horses to rest at the stables in the way to the inn, waking the very grumpy dwarf responsible from his sleep in his hay bed that’s incidentally in the same stable.

They reach a three-story building made of stone that’s mashed between two crooked wooden shorter houses. Julian pities the people that live in those horrible horrible houses. They look like they’re about to fall apart any minute now. It reminds him of Novigrad and its poorer neighborhoods. 

The stone building of interest though looks well kept and sturdy. Low candlelight illuminates its small glass windows. Julian studies the intricate wooden sign that’s hanging above the thick doorway. ‘Wirsing’ it says in delicate cursive, a picture of a plate of roasted chicken adorns the space under the letters. What a strange name for an inn. 

“What does Wirsing mean?” asks Ciri before Julian can. 

Geralt opens his mouth to answer but he doesn’t get a chance to. The heavy door opens with force and a hat-wearing man tackles him to the ground. Accidentally. Julian snorts a laugh, Ciri giggles and Geralt glares at them both beneath the man. But his eyes are soft. 

The man groans. “Sorry mate,” he says as he struggles to get on his feet groggy from sleep. Julian offers him a hand --his good one-- and he takes it. Their eyes meet; a golden iris and a milky white one meet two golden.

“Well fuck me sideways!” Julian exclaims, “Aiden of Glyswen! What are you doing so far north,  _ Cat _ ?” 

Aiden blinks a couple of times his one good pupil adjusting to the low light. He raises a finger. “Hol’ on,” he slurs and moves at a nearby tree. The moment Julian realizes what the Cat Witcher intents to do he shoves Ciri inside the inn. 

“Hey!” she shouts in protest as the heavy door slams behind her.

Geralt, still on the ground stares at him incredulously. 

“Do you intend on sleeping in the mud, love?” he jokes as he offers Geralt his good hand. 

Geralt snorts. “ _ Hilarious _ .”

“Certainly.” Julian grins. “Now go get us a room and make sure Fiona gets the grime out of her hair. I’ll join you shortly.”

Geralt hums and narrows his eyes glancing at the sleepy Aiden who’s pissing what must be five ales against the bark of an unfortunate tree. “Be careful, alright?”

“Yes, yes! Don’t worry, I’ve known the bastard for years. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Julian pauses dramatically, “Well except for monsters and assassination targets and whoever gets between him and his ale.”

“ _ Jules _ . You have a bounty on your head, is all I’m saying. Be. Careful.”

“Geez, I will. Now shoo.” he gestures. “Don’t leave Fiona alone.”

“She’s watching from the window”

“Of course she is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was contemplating on waiting and posting this and the next one together but I'm impatient :D :D :D   
> Y'all are amazing and I love you very much! <3 
> 
> Ps. Comments are always appreciated and I want you to know my heart feels fuzzy and warm when I read them <3 
> 
> Did I say y'all are awesome? Because you are!
> 
> Ps. ps. I used em dashes instead of double dashes! haha! amazing!


	26. A tiny bit of worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is worried and it shows  
> Jaskier is reckless as always  
> Ciri is a good girl

Geralt is brushing Ciri’s hair in silence, the thoughts swirling, festering, corrupting his mind. The whole ordeal with the Cat Witcher leaves a bad taste in Geralt’s mouth. He’s worried about Jaskier. While he’s come to term with Jaskier’s more… capable nature there’s still a part of him that feels he needs to be protected. Geralt’s always thought his bard was too trusting with people. 

And well, maybe it did not help his case that Cat Witchers were known contract killers, assassins that would not hesitate to kill their friends for the right amount of coin. But the name Aiden… He’s heard that name before. But where? And when?

“Geralt,” Ciri says, trying to turn her head to look at him.

He hums absentmindedly, her words barely registering. 

“Geralt!”, she says louder this time, “My hair will fall off if you continue brushing it!” This startles Geralt and he throws the brush away, maybe with too much force. It lands on the stone wall with a loud thump. 

Ciri turns to him and holds his hands in hers. “You’re worried about Jaskier,” she says matter of factly, her emerald eyes bright and intelligent. “Trust him, Geralt. He’s strong and that man was very obviously drunk.”

He shakes his head lightly. “You don’t understand little cub. Jaskier has a bounty on his head. The men in the forest...” he bites his tongue. He said too much. He reminds himself that he’s speaking to a child. A child that no matter how intelligent she should not burden herself with these matters. He smells the fear on her.  _ Fuck.  _ He fucked up bad. 

“It’s fine,” Ciri says, still holding his hands, “We’ll be fine.” Geralt has a feeling that the girl is saying the words to herself in an attempt to believe them.

“We’ll be fine”, he finds himself echoing her words.

The door to their room opens squeaking and Jaskier comes through swaying right and left. He promptly collapses headfirst on the bed and groans. 

“That’s my bed,” Ciri says and Jaskier groans again. 

There’s something wrong, Geralt is sure. He moves closer to Jaskier with one big stride and flips him around. 

“Ouch! Geraaalt! Do you want to kill me?” he protests and Geralt can see the injured collar bone sticking out awkwardly under the creme chemise. It’s broken again. 

“What the fuck Julian? You told me he wouldn’t harm you!”

“He didn’t!” he shouts but then takes a deep breath and lowers his voice when Ciri throws him a sharp look, “Well, technically...But it wasn’t Aiden’s fault!”

“ _ Julian _ . Explain. And start from the beginning.” Geralt crosses his arms but quickly uncrosses them and moves to help Jaskier remove the vest and shirt he’s wearing when he sees the man having a hard time to do this on his own. 

As he listens to Jaskier explaining what the fuck happened the --  _ not even _ \-- ten minutes he was left unattended, he’s searching in their travel bags for spare bandages. 

“So you saw him… He is piss-drunk, the fucking idiot, and well, he started saying something like: Mmmmhr Julian, just the man I was searching for yadda-yadda. Then he threw up there in the middle of the street and chanted something about a bounty but at that time his speech was incomprehensible to actually understand what the bloody fool was on about and yeah. Long story short he passed out and I carried him to his room straining the fucking collarbone in the process which fucking broke again.”

Geralt rubs soothing circles to his temples feeling the headache coming. Jaskier was gonna be the end of him. Fuck. He takes a deep breath and a fucking memory of fucking Lambert comes to his mind. 

‘ _ Aiden’s the best man I’ve ever known _ ’ said his brother one day one long winter at Kaer Morhen years ago. Then he had proceeded --under the effect of his special vodka-- to ramble about his friendship with the Cat. Eskel and Geralt never stopped pestering him about Aiden that winter.  _ Good memories.  _

Maybe this Aiden is Lambert’s Aiden? It is possible. And if it is, this man could probably be trusted. 

“Earth to Geralt.” Julian waves a hand that gets the white wolf’s attention, “Where did you wander off, love?”

Geralt grunts. 

“At least hand me the bandages Geralt, if you’re not gonna talk.” When Geralt remains dead still, weighing the possibilities, Ciri grabs the bandages from his hands and gives them to Jaskier. 

“Do you know Lambert?” he finally asks and is so relieved to see the recognition of the name in Jaskier’s eyes. 

“I do,” Jaskier says grinning. “We ran on and off together, the cranky arse, Aiden and me. You should know, they owe me a life debt the bastards. They used to get in so much trouble. It was bloody insane.” 

Geralt feels a small smile creeping upon him.  _ Sounds like Lambert, alright. _

“Don’t worry too much, love. We’ll talk to Aiden come morning. Besides, even if he wanted to kill me -- which I highly doubt by the way -- he’s in no state to even harm a fly. And he won’t be for many hours.”

“Fine”, he surrenders. 

“Do we have another Swallow, by the way? I’d love to be able to sleep peacefully.”

“You have to earn it,” says Geralt holding the last bottle of the vitality potion. “It’s the last one.”

Jaskier gets up and plants a kiss on Geralt’s cheek. Ciri giggles happily. 

“Not what I meant,” says Geralt in his most neutral voice, which is a hard task --even for him, the most stoic of the witchers-- because gods does he adore those sweet chaste kisses so much. So he hands the idiot reckless Witcher the potion anyway. 

“I know what you meant,” Jaskier says cheekily.  _ Ah fuck.  _ He got the wrong idea. Geralt hopes the fool does not say anything inappropriate in front of their child. “I’ll be more careful from now on, I swear it.” the Bear Witcher smiles softly. 

_ Ah _ . It seems Geralt has misjudged him. 

“Good.” He mumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all make me smile so brightly when I read y'alls comments! <3 thank you so much!  
> I never expected so many folks to like my fic!  
> I mean WOW! I'm so happy, you have no idea! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this lil chapter  
> next one we finally talk to Aiden  
> finally!


	27. Liberated hats and breakfast meals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :')   
> shenanigans and stuff

Even with Swallow numbing the pain, Julian has a hard time falling and staying asleep. Damnit. He can’t even enjoy sleeping in the same bed as Geralt. 

It seems the white-haired witcher is restless as well, tossing and turning and tossing again the whole night. Until, Julian sees him get up, sneaky as a mouse, and go sit on the fucking ground. The fucking traitor starts to meditate. 

Julian knows this is because of Aiden. Geralt is very obviously worried the Cat has bad intentions. He can’t blame him really, after hearing Aiden’s drunken mumbling from up close. Julian wants to trust the one-eyed Witcher. He really does. But, after nearly perishing there, in the forest, not even a day ago, by the hands of bounty hunters? Well, excuse him if he’s being paranoid when he hears Aiden speak the word bounty in the same sentence as his name. 

Aiden’s drunken words repeat themselves in his mind. 

_ ‘Mmmm, Julian! Just the man - hic - I was searchin’ for -hic- I need you for the ploughin’ bounty what’s his name offered. -hic- Waitwaitwait -hic- There was somthin’ -hic- I needed to tell you.’ (And then he vomited again- gross) _

Julian can’t decide if the man wants to kill him, if this was another bounty he wanted help with, or if he was searching for him in order to warn him about the bounty. 

* * *

Come morning, Julian feels like he’s been trampled by an ox.  _ Fucking brilliant _ . His companions do not look any better either, dark circles gracing their eyes. The princess woke up at an unholy hour of the night howling -- the poor thing -- and couldn’t calm down enough to go back to sleep. And Geralt, well, let’s just say meditation  _ is not _ a valid substitute for a good night’s sleep. So they sat there, the three of them, in an uncomfortable silence till they heard the first rooster crow signalling the beginning of a new day. 

If everything’s good -- meaning his life won’t be needlessly endangered by rogue bounty hunters -- maybe they ought to stay in town for a few days. Catch on the must needed sleep they deserve. After all, it wouldn’t exactly be wise to be on the road again with him incapacitated. And probably no one will notice --or care enough-- if they hole up in Wirsing for a few days. Certainly not the innkeeper who Julian found out, named the inn after himself and did not bat an eye at letting three witcher’s stay in his property. 

They make their way to the inn’s tavern hall where they find one of Wirsing’s employees, a redheaded elven woman tending the bar. They order a frugal breakfast to save coin and proceed to eat it in silence. 

It’s not long before Aiden comes down the stairs holding his head with one hand and wearing that same hat he wore last night, undoubtedly to hide his more exotic features. 

Julian tries desperately to appear unfazed, alas fails spectacularly at it, his stomach burning with the fear of possible betrayal. Geralt shoots him a knowing look and reaches for his steel sword. Julian shakes his head at this. 

“Ugh… My head is killing me,” Aiden says, taking the empty chair next to Julian. 

“I don’t even want to know how much you drank last night,” Julian jokes half-heartedly in an attempt to calm his too-fast-for-a-witcher heartbeat.

“It’s all the barmaid’s fault, for being so damn nice,” he grins and then he settles for a serious expression. Julian catches Geralt securing the grip on his sword and Ciri reaching for her boot-stiletto. Aiden glances at the white-haired witcher and the girl, “Oh relax, will you? I’m not here to kill Julian.”

“So you know about the bounty,” says Geralt carefully, eyes fixed on the Cat witcher, examining his every move. 

Aiden hums and nods, the smile returning to his face.

“Why do you know about it, Aiden?” Julian hisses, maybe a smidge too aggressively.

“Because that shithead Ferrant fancy-middle-name Pankratz offered me way too many Crowns for your head on a stick. I refused of course. I’d never kill a brother, no matter the coin. Especially  _ you _ , you dumbnut!”

“You came to warn me,” Julian realizes and feels a weight being lifted from his shoulders when the Cat witcher nods. “Oh thank gods!” 

“I am offended, Julian,” he says, but Julian can tell from the way he purses his lips slightly at the end of the sentence that he’s lying.

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Aiden agrees and grins widely revealing sharp canines. He then points to the rest of the small company that’s sitting at the same table, “Won’t you introduce us?”

“Geralt,” says Geralt with a nod, ever the chatterbox.

“And this is our daughter, Fiona,” adds Julian casually ruffling the girl’s hair. She nods courtly. 

“Your  _ what  _ now?” Aiden seems utterly baffled by this bit of information. Julian smirks and Ciri mirrors him. It’s nice to see the kid participating in his antics. Even if it doesn’t really count as an antic, as it is the truth. Still, Julian relishes the expression Aiden’s face has taken. “Get outta here! First I find you beardless, which I didn’t think would ever happen by the way and I wouldn’t have said anything about it but  _ DAMN- Rest in peace glorious beard! _ And then I find out you have a kid? How’d that happen?”

“Law of-” Julian starts saying but is cut off by Geralt. 

“Glorious beard, Jules?  _ You _ ?” Geralt says with a smug lopsided smile. The bastard. He looked really nice with a beard, thankyouverymuch! 

“Yes me,  _ my darling _ .” he deliberately stresses the last word which makes Geralt turn his head away and Aiden whistle. Julian turns to Aiden, “Law of Surprise, I was about to say before I got so rudely interrupted by my dear wolf.”

“Eh, I figured,” Aiden shrugs. “Soooooo… You have a thing for Wolves Julian?” the bastard smirks. 

How dare he mention that in front of Geralt. He hopes - he really hopes- that Geralt is dumb enough to let this innuendo slide past him. By the evident alarm in Geralt’s eyes though… He’s already put two and two together. 

_ Well, fuck.  _

Would the White Wolf believe him if he told him it didn’t mean anything? That things like that sometimes just happen? No feelings, just… well, you know. 

Honestly, Julian had forgotten about that particularly embarrassing night before Aiden kindly reminded him of it.  _ Eugh _ . That would make spending the whole winter in Kaer Morhen hell.  _ Fan-fucking-tastic.  _

Aiden will pay for this. 

So Julian does what Julian knows will irritate the bastard Cat. With a lightning-fast swoop of his uninjured hand, he swipes Aiden’s hat and waves it like a flag triumphantly. This realistically would not have been made possible if Aiden wasn't so damn hungover, but, well, Julian saw the chance and he took it. 

Aiden yelps and brings his palms to cover his too long, too pointy ears. 

“You bloody bastard! Give it back!” he yells and Julian gestures with a hand to  _ come and get it _ .

“That’s not nice, Julian,” Ciri rises from her seat frowning, reaching for the liberated hat. “Give it back to him!”

Julian stares at her quizzically for a bit but then hands Aiden the ugly hat. There’s a story there, he’s sure. Maybe the princess will decide to tell them in the future. 

“Don’t tell anyone of what you saw. Anyone.” Aiden hisses between clenched teeth, adjusting his hat. 

Geralt hums. “Half-elf?” he asks under his breath and Aiden nods. Geralt hums again. “That’s some shit luck.”

Aiden sighs. “You have no idea.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all!!!!! <3 <3 <3 Thank you for being so awesome and reading this story! 
> 
> @StarsInMyDamnEyes did some pretty awesome art of my version of [Witcher!Jaskier <3 ](https://stars-in-my-damn-eyes.tumblr.com/post/616012855399055360/but-what-if-he-wore-blue-brothebro)
> 
> did I link the drawing I did of Aiden? I don't remember! I'll link it again [ here ](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/615374617175113728/this-boi-right-here-is-my-interpretation-of-aiden)
> 
> hope you enjoyed the chapter <3


	28. Julian's lament caused by boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian is on inn-arrest and he's bored.

Rivia proved better than the shit-hole town Julian had expected. It is nice, there in the non-human district. There is a sense of camaraderie between its residents; A gnome would help out their elven neighbour, a dwarf would chat and play Gwent with a halfling and sometimes, families would consist of different species. That last one is one of Julian’s favourite things in the city. An elven family had adopted three orphaned dwarven children and it was too adorable a sight. It was so adorable, Julian had started writing a song inspired by them. 

All this he can see from the big window of their room where they’ve been staying the past three days. The room’s starting to feel suffocating to him though. There’s only so much a person can do in a simple room. There isn’t even a desk in there for fuck’s sake! Writing on the bed or on the floor is not exactly something one can do for hours on end. Thank Melitele for the princess, who’s shown interest in learning to play the lute, making the endless hours pass more quickly. Well, that and random visits of Aiden who just barges in, says whatever he wants to say, stays a bit and then out he is again.

Ah, he wants to go for a walk. He doesn’t ask too much, surely. 

Yet.

Geralt is adamant on letting his injury heal as long as they have coin -- which is running short rather quickly he might add. And since he has a bounty on his head that reduces him to house arrest, or rather inn-arrest. He’s not allowed in the tavern-hall in peak hours and that bothers him more than he cares to admit. 

But what bothers him the most is how distant Geralt has become the past days. It must be the immensely stressful situation of being hunted taking its toll on him, Julian rationalizes. He hopes. He wishes. Because the only alternative that crosses his mind… 

It can’t be jealousy, can it?

_ Can it? _

Nah, it’s ridiculous. Geralt knows that as Jaskier the Bard he bedded half the Continent. He didn’t seem to mind then. Furthermore, the white-haired witcher is smart enough to come to the very rational conclusion that Julian before he became Jaskier still bedded a lot -- A LOT -- of people of various species and genders. So why should it bother him? It never bothered him before. Surely the white-wolf is above such petty feelings. _Right?_

But damn Aiden and his big mouth.

He makes a promise to himself to answer any question Geralt poises in the future. No matter how awkward of an ordeal it is or how much of an unpleasant picture of Julian the Witcher it paints.

Oh well. He’ll deal with it when the time comes and he can run away no longer. 

* * *

Aiden stays and keeps them company the first three days. It’s good having him there. As much of an ass he is, he’s also fun and full of stories of hunts and contracts, assassinations and political scandals. Who knew, the lords and ladies of the Continent were so damn petty? Well, Julian had an inclination from playing in courts for nearly two decades but some of Aiden’s stories were just ludicrous. 

For example, the countess of Lan Exeter was willing to pay for her sister’s assassination an absurd amount of gold because the later presumably insinuated her hairstyle was not fashionable during tea time with the ladies of Kovir. Now, this -  _ this  _ was true pettiness. For the record, Aiden had laughed so much when he heard the reason for the assassination that the countess of Lan Exeter had him chased out of the city by every single member of the garrison. 

On the dawn of the fourth day, Julian and Geralt are awakened by a knock on the door. It’s still pretty dark outside, Julian notices, the roosters --and Ciri-- still fast asleep. Only the howling of the wind and the pitter-patter of the rain softly hitting the roofs can be heard aside from their three heartbeats and calm breathing. 

He gets up sluggishly to open the door, but is stopped by Geralt’s arm hindering his movement. Geralt shoots him an exasperated look. ‘Stay you fool’ his eyes say. Julian rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. Julian doubts whoever is behind that door would have the decency knock if their intentions were malignant. 

Geralt reaches for a dagger and opens the door an inch and Julian sighs loudly. 

“Put the dagger down, Wolf,” Aiden can be heard whispering behind the door. Geralt grunts and opens the door to let the Cat inside the room.

“It’s awfully early Aiden,” Julian says sitting up. He looks at the Cat Witcher, who’s drenched in rainwater, mud and -- Julian sniffs the air -- blood, definitely blood. “What happened?”

“Came to say goodbye” he rushes the words. He’s anxious, looking left and right, his breath hitching at the slightest sound. “Contract gone bad bad bad. Gotta bounce before they suspect me.”

“Anything we should look out for?” Geralt says sternly.

“Yeah. Don’t get a contract for the south-east woods. There’s no monster.”

“What happened Aiden?” Julian asks nervously. “We have to know if we’re to help you somehow.”

“Non-humans were disappearing mysteriously, so I thought I’d investigate a bit,” he says voice hardly a whisper, ”turns out it was a wealthy merchant’s ploy. He was selling them to nobles, Julian. I got so angry. I-”

“You killed him.” Geralt says.

Aiden nods. “Him and his personal security. Made it look like a monster mauling.”

“Smart,” Julian acknowledges.

“I doubt he was working alone though. I can’t trust nobody saw anything. Hell, the folks I freed certainly witnessed the whole thing. That’s why I gotta get outta here quickly.”

“I doubt someone you helped would rat you out,” Julian says. 

“Happened before. Don’t want to stay long enough to find out if it’s gonna be the same this time around.” Aiden says his voice tainted with bitterness and Julian feels bad for the Cat Witcher but he understands. “‘Sides I have promised to meet Lambert in Ellander in a fortnight.”

“Give Nenneke our greetings when you get there,” Julian smiles sympathetically. “But do refer to me as Jaskier when you do so, I don’t think she knows me as Julian.” Julian regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth but it’s too late to take it back. He blames sleep for his muddled treacherous brain.

Well. 

Nothing he can do now. 

Geralt sighs and rolls his eyes exasperated. “Stupid,” he mouths. 

“Will do,” says Aiden nonchalantly as if he knew all along. And maybe he did. It was in his line of work to uncover secrets after all. “Goodbye witchers, Fiona. See you soon.”

* * *

“So how long are we planning on staying in your hometown Geralt?” Ciri asks during breakfast and Geralt snorts a laugh. Julian stares at him quizically. There was nothing remotely funny about the girl’s question. 

“What was that about, love?” Julian asks.

“I’m not from Rivia,” Geralt responds. Both Ciri and Julian stare at him incredulously.

“But- But your accent! Geralt, your accent! It’s unmistakably Rivian.” Julian tries to understand. He knows most Witcher’s chose a monicker to seem more ‘relatable’ when the time came to follow the Path but many kept their place of birth for it (and Julian de Lettenhove was one among them). Julian always assumed Geralt of Rivia fell on the second category and was actually from fucking Rivia. 

“Learned it.” the Wolf says and Julian almost chokes on his food. 

“That’s impressive,” says Ciri with a smile.

“My whole life is a LIE!” Julian shrieks dramatically. Ciri chuckles but quickly regains her composure.

“But you didn’t answer my initial question, Geralt,” Ciri says. “How long are we going to stay here?”

“Until we’re prepared for the road and sure Julian’s collarbone isn’t going to fucking break again.”

Julian huffs. “It’s not going to bloody break. And all thanks to me absolutely destroying our Swallow supplies. The amount I had could revive a long-deceased man,  _ Geralt _ !”

“True. We need to replenish those potions before we go,” Geralt says, “I’ll go to the market today, see if I can find some of the missing ingredients.”

“Can I come with?” Ciri and Julian ask in sync.

“You can come,” Geralt points at Ciri, “You stay put,” he points at Julian and Julian snarls at him and crosses his arms slumping further down on the chair. 

“I can use the glamour,” Julian tries, “Dress up in my silks and all the finery.”

Geralt grunts, but Julian can tell he’s thinking about it. 

“No-one will be able to tell and it lasts a long time too! Promise I’ll be back in our room before I turn back into a pumpkin.” Ciri laughs at this but Geralt seems unfazed. “Besides I have an eye for good ingredients and you don’t! Come on,  _ Geraaaaalt! _ ”

Geralt clicks his tongue and follows with an annoyed “Fine.”

_ Fucking finally! Fresh air! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, darlings <3 Thank you for being awesome and supportive! <3 
> 
> @bagelyulia over at insta did a fantastic drawing of [Witcher-Bard!Jask <3 ](https://www.instagram.com/p/B_XzI2aKKyH/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)
> 
> Bit of a boring chapter, sorry  
> But a must needed bridge for the next story arc :) 
> 
> Still, hope you enjoyed it <3


	29. And I'm about to break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: panic/anxiety attack  
> Heavy angst
> 
> you've been warned.

Geralt is holding his breath the whole ten seconds Jaskier’s glamour is taking to activate. He might have witnessed it once before, the very same day his bard acquired it, but he finds he can’t take his eyes away from the marvel. It’s nothing too wondrous or awe-inspiring but the moment Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes meet his he feels a sharp tug where his heart resides. 

And he immediately feels awful. 

He shouldn’t like this. His heart shouldn’t discriminate between Witcher Jaskier and Bard Jaskier. It’s wrong wrong  _ wrong _ ! He’s the same person for fuck’s sake. Blue eyes, yellow eyes, what does it matter? Yet, it’s those brilliant blue eyes that haunted his dreams in the past couple of years.  _ That’s so shallow, fuck! _ He feels the taste of bile on his mouth, but despite that, he manages to keep his poker face. 

_ Fuck. _

Jaskier must have caught him starring because he’s looking at him quizically, letting out an inquisitive hum. So he does the only thing he knows to do; he averts his eyes and feigns ignorance. 

“Is something wrong Geralt? Does the glamour have any noticeable side-effects I should be aware off?”

Geralt shakes his head, “It’s fine.”

Ciri fetches a mirror from Jaskier’s saddlebags and hands it to him. “It’s perfect like last time,” she says smiling brightly. 

_ It’s- He’s gorgeous _ , Geralt thinks and the pang of guilt makes his stomach churn.

“Thank you little swallow,” Jaskier says ruffling her hair, “Do you want me to fix those wild things-,” he gestures at the bird’s nest that is her hair, “- into an updo? Or perhaps a braid?”

“Two brai--” she starts but gets cut off by Geralt.

“Let’s go. We don’t have all day,” he says simply instead, silencing all the wrong little intrusive thoughts. He does not wait for a reply and with big steps, he makes his way out of the room and down to the tavern-hall, thoroughly ignoring the protests of the bard and the girl.

-

To say his mood is foul would be an understatement. Geralt’s furious with himself. With his thoughts that somehow keep popping up no matter how hard he tries to repress them. That’s why he barely registers what is happening around him. That’s why he somehow ends up taking a contract from an elderly fellow, for a spectre that’s haunting a burned down farmhouse. For a minuscule amount of coin too. Seems simple a task enough. And maybe a hunt will help him rid of this excess energy that is probably to blame for the thoughts. 

He informs Jaskier and the stupidly beautiful blue eyes of his where he’ll be going and makes him promise not to do something irresponsible and go straight back to their room and wait for him to return. 

He doesn’t even look back to bid goodbye as he makes his way north, to the place of the haunting, the elder man pointed him towards. He doesn’t want to meet those eyes. He mustn’t. Because the thoughts are too loud and too wrong. Wrong. Wrong. 

He’s angry. He’s mad. He doesn’t deserve Jaskier. Oh, gods, he doesn’t deserve him. The mountain, the relentless dismissal of his existence for two decades. Jaskier could have anyone. Jaskier  _ can  _ have anyone. Witcher or not. Aiden made that abundantly clear.

Geralt was probably a replacement for whoever was before him. That other wolf. It didn’t make sense else. Why would Jaskier love him? Why. He doesn’t deserve good things. He fucked up with Yennefer. He fucked up with Renfri. All he does is fuck up. 

Jaskier should hate him. They should all hate him. He doesn’t deserve love. 

Fuck, he really doesn’t.

Not when his treacherous heart discriminates between versions of the same man. Not when he selfishly bound the destiny of the sorceress with his. Not when he killed the cursed princess when he knew it was wrong.

Shallow. Shallow.  _ Shallow _ !

Fuck.

His eyes are burning. Still, he won’t cry. He refuses to do so. He does not deserve to cry. And what would crying solve anyway? Nothing. It would solve nothing. 

He tries desperately to even out his erratic breathing. He tries and fails. Each breath is sharper than the last, harsher, agonizing. Cornflower blue. Lilac violet. Walnut brown. Every moment he regrets --every single one of them-- flashes before his eyes mocking him, reminding him that he’s a bad person. No! Not a person, a monster. 

It’s wrong,  _ he’s _ wrong. 

He can’t breathe. FUCK. He can’t breathe. His throat is burning hot, an ugly sob refusing to be released. It weighs him down until there’s nothing he can do but stop. But he mustn’t stop. No, he mustn’t. He has a contract to fulfil. A monster to hunt.

_ But, you’re the monster Geralt _ , his mind taunts him.

Monster!

MONSTER!

M

O

N

S

  
  


T

  
  
  


E

  
  
  
  


R

.

.

.

.

.

_ You don’t deserve good things Geralt. _

_ You don’t.  _

He’s wailing, screaming. He must be at least. His throat hurts so much. So much. He feels like his head is about to shatter in a million pieces.  _ Broken _ . He pulls at silver strands with shaking hands. But it’s not just his hands that are shaking.

He’s numb,  _ so fucking numb. _

He doesn’t see the band of black and gold surrounding him. He doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t smell them. 

It’s over before it begins. There is no fight, there can’t be a fight. Not when he’s so fucking weak. 

They are holding him and tying chains to his limbs, he barely registers. He’s going to die, isn’t he? A fitting end for a monster; brought down by his own incompetence. 

Someone says something but he’s not sure what it is. His ears are refuse to work. 

Someone pulls his hair, forcing him to look up, to meet a set of unnatural eyes. They speak again. Ah, they are making fun of him. Of course, they are. Perfect. 

“Look at us,” the voice hisses. “Look at us,  _ Witcher! _ ”

Geralt complies. He stares deep in those milky eyes, this ashy shrivelled skin surrounding them. It’s not like he has a choice, not when so many soldiers are holding him, directing his movement. 

He just hopes Jaskier is not going to come looking for him. He hopes he’ll forget him. Take Ciri and go far away. Never looking back. Never. 

“What a good obedient little Witcher,” the voice says again, “Now give us everything. Give us  _ you _ . Oh, we will be so handsome.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boi I made myself cry :')
> 
> Still. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, angst and all.   
> I wanted to explore Geralt's thoughts a bit more and gnaw at his guilt.   
> Boi needs love and support and a lot of help. Because 80 something years of witchering haven't been kind to him.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts :)


	30. The hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri is having a good day until it's suddenly terrible :)

It’s a nice change of pace, shopping with Jaskier in the busy marketplace. It’s not like Ciri didn’t like walking around Rivia with Geralt but after three days of walking from Wirsing to the stables in silence to check on their horses and bring them treats, she had enough. After travelling with the witchers for so long she came to understand that Geralt is not the most verbose of the witchers --the exact opposite of Jaskier-- but the almost complete silence of the past few days strike her as odd. Something is bugging him, she’s sure of it.

So, when Geralt accepts a contract out of the blue and leaves them murmuring the minimal instructions ‘Back to Wirsing’ ‘...will be late’ and ‘Be careful’ without even looking at them as he does she gets worried. Once Geralt is out of sight Ciri tugs on Jaskier’s doublet’s baby blue silk sleeve to get his attention from the current haggling attempt for a lower price on a big amount of various colourful herbs.

“Dad,” she whispers the still strange on her tongue, agreed-upon alias but gets no response. Jaskier is too absorbed in making use of his charisma to make the young merchant practically gift him half of the things he wants to purchase. “Dad!” she tries louder this time. 

“Fiona, sweetheart give me a moment,” Jaskier smiles kindly at her and she nods. The worry gnaws at her but she reckons she can wait a few minutes. Geralt is strong, she reminds herself. He’ll be fine. She watches as Jaskier turns his attention back to the merchant, “Let’s meet in the middle, shall we? 15 Silvers.”

“17,” the merchant crosses his arms.

“17,” Jaskier confirms. Ciri doesn’t know a lot about bartering but from Jaskier’s genuine smile she can tell it was a good deal. 

“I want to tell you something,” she says furrowing her brows.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. What worries you?”

“It’s Geralt,” she says trying to put her thoughts in order, “I’m worried. I feel he acts odd the past days... Like something’s constantly on his mind.”

Jaskier looks pointedly at the ground and frowns. “I know. At first, I thought he’s just stressed out because of the bounty or jealous about, well-” he bites his tongue. Ciri is old enough to realise it’s about Jaskier’s past romantic escapades and is mildly annoyed that both Witchers so meticulously watch their tongues around her and treat her like a child. Well, she is a child, but still, she grew up in Calanthe’s court for heck’s sake. There are far worse things she’s heard than the brief mention of one’s past lovers, “but...” Jaskier continues.

“But after today’s display, you think there’s something else, don’t you?”

He blinks at her twice. “Couldn’t have worded it better.”

“Then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go find him!”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I’ve known Geralt for over twenty years, sweetheart. I am worried, yes. But he needs time on his own to process whatever is going on inside this thick skull of his. He’ll just yell at us if we try to help him know.” His words come from experience, Ciri can see it in the distant look in his eyes.

“But what if something goes wrong?” she asks. She can’t exactly explain it but there’s this feeling in her gut telling her to go after him. Quickly. There’s no time to lose. 

“For now it’s best to let him clear his head. And a spectre is not a particularly challenging opponent. Don’t worry, little swallow, Geralt is one of the most skilled witchers I know.” he smiles at her but his eyes look sad, “And if he isn’t back till midday we’ll go looking for him, alright?” he adds and she nods reluctantly suppressing the dread she feels festering in her gut.

It’s probably silly to believe in gut feelings anyways.

* * *

Geralt finds them, far quicker than anticipated, while they’re loitering around in the bakery waiting for a merchant who said she would procure them some plants from Jaskier’s list-- quote-unquote, she knows a witch and the witch owes her several favours she could cash in for the right coin.

Geralt looks fine, Ciri notices. There’s no dirt in his armour and his hair is in top condition tightly bound in a half-ponytail. Nothing to indicate a fight or a struggle. Heck, the man is also sporting a lopsided smile and even waves when he sees them. Odd. But maybe Jaskier was right and Geralt only needed to clear his head a bit.

“I take it there was no hunt?” Jaskier asks, raising a dark brow.

Geralt snorts a laugh. “It was a cat hidden beneath some rubble yowling. Can you believe that? How did they even mistake a cat for a spectre?” he says with ease. Ciri finds herself smiling at the tale. It seems the “hunt” lifted his spirits. _ Hmm…  _ Maybe she was panicking for no reason. Still, the uneasiness doesn’t leave her. 

“It seems you’re in a good mood, love” Jaskier says with a smile. 

Geralt hums and opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by the merchant that returns with a small sack containing the procured goods. Jaskier pays her the appropriate amount of coin and practically shoos her away rather quickly, a bit too rushed in Ciri’s opinion. 

She watches as Geralt moves closer to Jaskier lifting with a hand his chin up slightly to meet the bard’s eyes, completely ignoring the stares of the townsfolk. 

“Gods your eyes are pretty,” Geralt says and it feels wrong. At first, she can’t place exactly what it is that feels so out of place about it, after all, she’s witnessed plenty of sweet moments between her parents the past month. But never in public. And never when Jaskier was wearing his glamour. 

_ It’s wrong because it’s not the real Jaskier, the Witcher Jaskier, _ her mind supplies. It’s wrong because he’s telling those sweet things to wrong eyes. Why would Geralt do that when he knows it will hurt Jaskier? It doesn’t make sense. 

She examines Jaskier now. There’s nothing on his face that gives away even the tiniest smidge of hurt. He seems at ease, really. Like this whole scene is a completely ordinary thing. Ciri doesn’t like this at all. Her stomach seems to agree with her churning as it is. There’s something foul at play she knows it, but she can’t exactly figure it out for now.

For some reason, Moussack pops into her mind briefly. 

_ But it couldn't be... _

“Let’s leave Rivia,” Geralt says, “We’ve been here enough days already.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Jaskier says and Ciri catches him glancing at her briefly, eyes serious and strict, the polar opposite of the affectionate gaze he was giving Geralt not a moment earlier. ‘Follow my lead’ those eyes say and that she does. 

* * *

Geralt seems adamant on them leaving the city immediately. One could say he's anxious even not to lose any time. But he masks it almost perfectly under a small lopsided smile. 

Jaskier is nonchalantly leading them to the inn saying something about needing to fetch his spare coin pouch because they first and foremost need to pay the stablehand for caring for Roach and Dung-Beetle. He mouths at Ciri to find an excuse to follow him in the inn, while Geralt waits outside. 

Geralt protests, of course, wanting to come up to the room himself, but Jaskier shuts him down with an 'it won't be but a minute, love. In and out before you even notice' and a wink. 

Ciri is absolutely certain there is something wrong with Geralt and that Jaskier knows exactly what it is. 

So, they rush to their room and Jaskier shuts the door behind him carefully as to not make any noise. He breathes in deeply. 

"I'm going to need that silver dagger I gave you, little swallow," he says and for the first time today, his eyes are full of pain. 

"That's not Geralt waiting for us outside, is it?" She asks, her voice barely audible --but she knows Jaskier will hear her-- while she removes the dagger from her boot and hands it to him. 

Jaskier shakes his head and she can swear unshed tears are welling up in his eyes. 

The image of Moussack flashes again in her mind. No. Not Moussack. The monster that wore his face.

"It's a doppler," Jaskier whispers, "and luckily for us, they seem confused about... well...  _ me _ ." He lets out a sad chuckle.

Ciri feels her heart hammering in her chest. Doppler. The word repeats itself in her mind. The memories of Brokilon forest are coming back. She opens her mouth to speak, to tell Jaskier all about the forest of the dryads, Dara and the chase, Nilfgard and the doppler, but the words seem to be stuck in her throat. 

"We'll get him back sweetheart," he reassures her.

* * *

“See!” Jaskier says with a grin, gesturing exaggeratedly, “It took only a breath to get the coin,” he bounces the almost empty pouch in his open palm. 

Not-Geralt grunts. “Very well. Can we go now?”

“Of course, love,” Jaskier says and Ciri flinches internally because she could never pull off a performance as natural as this. This is mainly the reason she chooses to remain silent in most situations that require believable lies. Jaskier hums, “I’ve spotted a nice apple tree in a yard close to the stables. Maybe we can bring our girls a couple of juicy red apples? They’ll surely love it!”

Not-Geralt grunts, a mixture of expressions flashing on his face until he settles for a reluctant smile. The doppler wants to lead them to Nilfgaard, just like Not-Moussack did. It’s anxious to do so and that’s making it slip from its performance. But for now, it follows Jaskier’s bubbly-all-over-the-place nature unsuspecting.

They are lucky in a way, that they were able to recognise the impostor early on. From what Jaskier had the time to tell Ciri in the room, it’s going to be difficult to take the doppler down since to a degree it mimics Geralt’s skills and not only his appearance. But he’s confident they will catch it by surprise before it can do any real harm.

Ciri can feel her heart beating frantically in her chest. She hopes the doppler isn’t able to hear it. She believes in Jaskier, she knows he’ll defeat the monster. Still, her heart won’t calm down.

Jaskier leads them to the outskirts of Rivia, close to the stables, via narrow rambling streets, babbling all sort of nothings during the brief journey. There’s a series of abandoned buildings there; old storage houses from the looks of it. 

“Where is the apple tree?” Not-Geralt asks stopping dead on his tracks, clearly nervous. It must be catching on on their plan, Ciri believes. 

Jaskier moves closer to Not-Geralt nonchalantly as if to pull it on a hug. Ciri shivers at the thought of moving so close too that thing voluntarily. But she knows it’s a necessary evil if they want to rid themselves of it and find the real Geralt. 

_ If he’s alive. _

NO! He must be alive. He must be.

Ciri swallows the bile that’s rising to her mouth. Best stay vigilant. No time to panic. She holds the knife Geralt gave her behind her back with two trembling hands and watches.

Lightning-fast Jaskier pulls Ciri’s silver dagger from it’s hiding place; his right boot. But before he can reach the doppler, Not-Geralt sidesteps and it misses its mark. Jaskier loses his footing and stumbles forward from the momentum and almost falls down before he finds his balance. No no no no no! Ciri prays to any god listening for Jaskier’s success because he’s still hurt and if the doppler has indeed Geralt’s skills that would be very very bad. 

Not-Geralt pulls out one of his not-swords and charges at Jaskier who in turn blocks the blade with the dagger. From the position Jaskier is, he’s able to press forward. Ciri watches the fight unfold holding her breath. Jaskier moves so close to Not-Geralt until their noses are but a centimetre away from one another. 

Ciri catches a swift motion on Jaskier’s free hand and suddenly Not-Geralt is sent flying to the stone wall of an abandoned warehouse. Not-Geralt groans in pain. Jaskier is upon him swiftly, pressing a foot on the creature’s ribs. The monster howls in pain but the cries are swiftly turned into maniacal laughter. 

“We were wrong,” says the creature between laughs, its eyes wide in realization, “It’s you, the second Witcher from our memories!”

“ _ Your _ memories?” Jaskier growls and presses the silver dagger on the creature’s exposed neck. It hisses as the silver burns it, pink skin getting replaced by grey shrivelled flesh. 

“Our memories, the white-haired one’s memories. It’s all the same to us,” the doppler smirks and Ciri watches as Jaskier’s eyes burn hot with anger when he presses the dagger deeper on the creature’s neck. The doppler spits on his face, “Pity, we would have taken your pretty face next,  _ Witcher. _ ”

“What did you do with Geralt?” Jaskier snarls and the creature laughs.

“Your witcher was a mess, he didn’t even put up a fight,” the doppler says and Ciri can feel her heart sinking. She should have listened to her gut. DARNIT. They should have run after Geralt immediately.

“Where. Is. Geralt.” Jaskier says again digging the blade deeper in the creature’s flesh. It’s sizzling, smoking and it hisses with pain. 

“Why bother telling you, you will kill us any-” the doppler starts saying but Jaskier is done with it and cuts its neck in one swift movement before it can finish its sentence. 

The knife slips from Ciri’s hand and falls unceremoniously on the muddy ground. She falls next, on her knees. 

It’s over. It’s dead. The creature from her nightmares is no more. 

Tears are spilling from her eyes. Tears of relief for the death of the monster and worry for Geralt’s fate. She doesn’t even realise when Jaskier moved closer, when he picked her up and when they arrived at the inn. 

“We’re going to find him, little swallow,” he says to her securing his armour.

She looks at him with blurry eyes. She opens her mouth to speak but the words won’t leave her mouth. 

She tries again and again and again. 

“It’s Nilfgaard,” she finally says.

“Nilfgaard?” Jaskier asks her, now yellow eyes wide and alarmed. 

“They have him. They are after me. I’m so sorry,” She chokes down a sob. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOOOOOH! 2.5 k words! That's a big big chapter.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments last chapter <3 And sorry for putting you through so much sudden angst  
> Angst is not done yet, it still has a hold over my brain 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it :)  
> Ciri's pov is hard to write but I think it turned out decent


	31. Unbesiegt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian wants his man back. He's angry and rightly so.
> 
> -canon typical violence  
> -canon typical swearing

Julian is holding his daughter tightly in his arms trying to calm her down. It's been a while since she concluded the retelling of the week she spent alone searching for them and her tears won't stop flowing. The frequent nightmares she experiences make so much more sense now that he has a context…

_ Damnit. _

He should have listened to her and went after Geralt immediately.  _ Stupid Julian. Stupid. _ When your child-surprise is literally magic you should know better and listen to her instincts. 

And now the poor child is blaming herself for the ill that’s befallen them. She shouldn’t blame herself. Hell, she should never have been in this position in the first place. 

Julian doesn’t like one bit that Nilfgaard seems so obsessed with Cirilla. It makes no sense to go to such lengths to catch her alive. Usually, when a kingdom falls the most logical strategy is to get rid of the previous monarchs, not catch them. There’s only one thing that crosses his mind as to why they follow this particular strategy... 

_ They must know _ , he reckons. About her power. They must know and that’s why they seek her. 

Yet, from what Ciri has told him there shouldn’t be a person that witnessed her power and stayed alive to tell the tale. Except for Geralt and him of course. So, how in the world do they know? 

_ Yennefer.  _ Yennefer could help them solve the mystery behind Nilgaard’s agenda. They have to find her as soon as possible. 

But first. They have to save Geralt’s ass from what most likely is a small army of Nilfgaardians. Julian just hopes there won’t be any mages mixed in the bunch. Mages tend to overcomplicate things so fucking much. Plus, they are hard to kill the bastards. 

He knows Geralt is still alive. There is no doubt about that. They would keep him alive as insurance if the doppler deemed themselves unreliable. Which, unsurprisingly did, twice from what Ciri told him. 

The encounter with the doppler unnerved him to be honest. He’s met quite a number of dopplers in the past, the most of them peaceful folk albeit a bit of jokesters. This particular one though seemed  _ off.  _ The whole talk about wearing people’s faces and the fact that it did speak in plural… It made the little hairs on the back of Julian’ neck stand. A true monster, it was. 

* * *

“And remember sweetheart,” Julian says in a low voice to the girl that’s walking next to him, holding his arm, “If anyone gets within two meters of you scream. _ Really scream _ . Promise?”

“Promise,” Ciri nods, her eyes red and puffy from crying. 

Rivia’s marketplace is even more packed with people than before. It takes Julian a while but he manages to locate the old man that offered Geralt the contract for the spectre. If his intuition is correct, which usually is, the contract itself was a ploy of the Nilfgaardians to separate Geralt from Ciri. 

It’s only logical. 

Chances are, they’ll be able to find their camp on the way to the contract. And when they do. Oh when they fucking do, those whoresons who captured his man, made a vile monster impersonate him just to get to his daughter? They will fucking wish they were never born. He’ll make sure of that.

But first, let’s actually find out where the bloody contract was supposed to be. He’d try to smell Geralt’s trail if Rivia wasn’t so fucking full of people, alas… he has to  _ converse  _ for information… as Julian the scary witcher, not Jaskier the fun and lovable bard. This was always a tricky thing honestly. People were always more reluctant to hand him information as Julian. 

And well, there's also the bounty on his head to keep in mind. But quite frankly, if someone deemed it rational to attack him in the middle of the city he has approximately zero qualms to defend himself. After all, what's the worst thing that could happen? Get banned from Rivia? Big deal. As if he hasn’t been chased by a mob from towns before.

Oh well, he'll have to rely upon good ol' intimidation and pray for the best; be it that he will get Geralt's location without much banter or the little stunt he's planning won't attract rogue bounty hunters.

He creeps behind his target and places a hand on the old man’s shoulder. The man flinches at the contact and turns slowly to meet Julian’s serious expression. And flinches further.  _ Ugh… the rotten stench of fear…  _ didn’t people eventually get bored of being so damn frightened all the time?

“Wh-What can I do for you sir witcher?” the man stutters.

“Heard you’re the man to talk about a… spectre, was it? Haunting a farmhouse somewhere outside the city?” Julian feigns ‘the genuinely interested for work witcher’. 

The man’s eyes go wide as saucers and the stench of fear is dripping from every pore of his feeble body. 

_ A-ha! Got you, you lying scum!  _ Julian is now unquestionably certain the contract was indeed a trap. 

“H-How-” the old man starts saying but he seems unable to continue and instead swallows audibly. 

“How irreparably you just gave yourself away, you’re trying to say?” he snarls at the man who cowers and curls into himself, “Do tell, _ old man _ , where the contract was supposedly located and I swear on Melitele nothing ill will befall you or your family.”

The man makes a turn to run away but Julian’s grip on his shoulder is unwavering.

“He’s very scary you know, my dad,” Ciri says so menacingly she makes Julian proud, “you don’t want to anger him.”

“Aw thank you, sweetheart,” Julian smiles a smile full of sharp teeth. He puts his strength on his grip on the man's shoulder. The man, winces and chokes down a yelp and Julian can't help but grin further, "Now, old man, I believe you owe us some information." 

* * *

It’s not far from Rivia, the place where the supposed contract would be, the place where the Nilfgaardians intercepted and captured Geralt. It’s not even an hour away, yet it’s a secluded rocky area surrounded by vast empty hilly fields and a lone ruin of a house amidst that. At least that’s what the old man said.

Julian is itching for a fight, his blood boiling at the thought of the soldiers clad in black and gold. He has his crossbow ready and armed. It’s not a crossbow meant for humans, it’s heavy and the bolts are thick, made of strong wood and silver meant to penetrate the scaly skin of sirens, forktails and whatever monster takes residence in the skies. It’s not meant for humans, yet the men he’s about to fight are the furthest thing from a human in his mind. 

His plan is pretty straightforward. Waltz in. Shoot two or three soldiers with the crossbow. Cut the remaining into pieces. And if there’s anyone that poses too much trouble… Well, he can always set them on fire. Or blast them towards a particularly pointy rock. Or if they are exceptionally dangerous, well, have Cirilla scream their head off. 

He will probably survive the burst of chaos again.  _ Probably _ . He’ll just have to Quen really fast this time. He always forgets the sign of Quen,  _ damn it _ , and that’s mainly the reason he sports so many scars. But now that he remembered it exists he’ll be unstoppable.

* * *

They are nearing the Nilfgaardian camp. They are on foot, Dung-Beetle gaiting next to Ciri and Julian. Julian can hear the idle chatter of the soldiers. His Nilfgaardian is a bit rusty, given that he spent a good three decades avoiding the south completely, but he manages to catch a few sentences. 

They say something about the doppler and laugh at a joke made at the expense of Geralt. They call him weak, an excuse of a witcher and… what was that? He didn’t even fight them? Julian has trouble believing they speak of the same man he knows better than he knows himself. It’s impossible. Geralt would have fought hard, he would have killed at least half a dozen of them before being captured. 

Yet the stench of death and blood is missing completely. Ergo, Geralt did not kill a single soldier before being captured. 

That goes easily in Julian’s list of top ten strangest things that have happened, ever.

They aren’t even that many for fuck’s sake. Julian can’t quite see them yet, his view hidden by a rocky hill, but he can tell apart what? Seven voices? Eight?

“Stay here with the horse,” Julian whispers, turning his head lightly to face Ciri. She nods silently. “And if anyone comes near what do you do?”

“I scream,” Ciri mouths the words silently. 

“And if I ask you to scream?”

She looks at him puzzled but mouths the same reply nonetheless. Julian doesn’t know if the girl can scream on command or if there needs to be an imminent danger or stress factor to do so. Well, he hopes it won’t come to that and that she’ll stay safely away from the battle. 

He bids her a quick goodbye and promises her, again, that he’ll save Geralt and will come back in one piece. 

He marches in long confident strides, his crossbow armed and ready. He climbs the small hill with ease, not bothering to muffle the sound his chainmail armour is making. 

The moment he has a view of the Nilfgaardian soldiers, who are sitting around in a circle in front of a ruined farmhouse, telling jokes and drinking from their flasks, he shoots the first bolt. It connects with the back of the head of the closest soldier who unceremoniously plops right into the small fire in front of him. 

The small band of the black-clad men are momentarily stunned but they quickly draw their weapons when they see the lone figure of the Bear Witcher atop the hill. 

Julian wastes no time and he reloads the deadly weapon with practised ease, shoots it and fells another one. Alas, he has no time for a third shot and he drops the crossbow on the ground and draws his steel sword as the men are rapidly approaching him. 

“Give me back my man!” he yells, closing the distance between himself and the angry soldiers. 

Once he’s close enough he kicks the closest one on the chest sending him rolling down the hill to the direction of the encampment. He parries the shortsword of another twisting it out of his hand and Aard’s the three that are trying to encircle him sending them flying off the hill. One of them lands on top of the man he previously kicked off the hill and his cry of pain is music in Julian’s ears. 

That’s one less fucker getting up. 

He swings his sword and with a slash, he relieves of his head as well as his weapon the soldier next to him before he can as much as nick him with the spare dagger he was frantically waving around.

He leaps from the hill, closing the distance between himself and the three soldiers that are trying to get on their feet. 

It’s a violent dance. Limbs go flying, swords clang loudly with each other. The Nilfgaardians remaining are competent enough to fight him --or would have been if he wasn’t so fucking angry--, as they manage to land some heavy hits on his armour which leave him breathless, before dying like the scum that they are. Graceless.

Thank fuck, they didn’t manage to hit his previously injured collarbone though. That would have been disastrous at best. 

He roars triumphally. 

But then he hears it. A muffled voice, calling for reinforcements, coming from inside the ruined farmhouse. 

_ Fucking hell.  _

He runs as fast as his legs allow him to, muttering all sorts of obscenities on the way. He smells the repulsive stench of corrupted chaos. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! 

“Scream!” he yells as loud as he can muster and braces himself for the impact by casting the protective shield of Quen around him. He does not stop running though. Leaping over the half-ruined wall of the farmhouse he lands between a bound and barely conscious Geralt and the soldier guarding him. 

A portal opens barely, half a body of a mage dressed in total black gets out and then he hears the scream. 

He closes his eyes, hugs Geralt tightly and plants his feet in the cold mossy ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh! this chapter took a long time to write! I'm still not completely satisfied by it but, oh well... I didn't want to retry writing it again and I certainly did not want to make you guys wait any longer :) 
> 
> That said, I want to thank you for all the kudos and lovely comments! they are a ray of sunshine and I treasure them all very much <3   
> Also! we reached 1000 Kudos!!!! hurray!!!! I'm drawing something to celebrate :D I'll post over at my [Tumblr](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/) when I'm done
> 
> One more thing! Have you guys read [ Death to the Details](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364571) yet??? If not, go read it :D it's amazing and I love it!
> 
> If I forgot to say something, forgive me, this day's been looooong


	32. Somewhere I belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the princess' shout
> 
> -gore. much gore  
> -moderate swearing  
> -aftereffects of a panic attack

Shit.

Two slow heartbeats. Two ragged breaths. They are alive, gods they are alive. Sure, there is rubble from the already--now completely-- ruined farmhouse on them, but they are fine. They are fine. Quen worked as expected --and of course, it did, why wouldn’t it Julian?-- and Julian is quite sure Geralt and he, are still in the same place, unmoved by the force of the scream.

The stench of blood and death is strong and with a quick look around Julian realises why. There’s the body of a woman cut jaggedly in half from head to toe, twisted in all sort of ways a body should not be able to. There’s also a man -- the man that called for reinforcements-- pressed on one of the still-standing walls of the unlucky building, eye sockets empty, a cavity where his heart once lied. 

He feels his stomach twist into a knot. He’s a Witcher and he’s seen a not-insignificant amount of death in his days but this- this is disgusting. He’d take a bath in kikimore guts over this any day.

He turns his attention to Geralt, still safe in his embrace, who seems barely conscious drawing out tired breaths. “Can you stand, my love?” Julian says, his voice barely a whisper. A low whine escapes Geralt’s lips.  _ Fuck.  _

Julian moves most of the rubble aside and makes his way to the closest body -- the mangled man-- in hope of finding a key for the shackles binding Geralt’s limbs. 

_ Oh fuck, oh no. Guts. Ew, guts. No key. Fantastic.  _

“Stay here, love,” he says to Geralt, “I’ll go quickly fetch a key from the friendly Nilgaardian corpses,” he jests halfheartedly in a futile attempt to ground the white-haired witcher whose brilliant golden eyes are staring into nothing and everything at the same time. He knows this look and he doesn’t like it. 

“‘M sl nm’b,” Geralt mutters under his breath, inhales deeply and slowly and tries again, “‘m still numb. Can’t mve.”

Julian shoots him a worried look, he knows exactly what this is. But he never thought, he never- Geralt was always so strong, so stoic. He never imagined he was going through something- well, something fucked up. 

He should have noticed. The clues were always there. How could he have been so blind?

_ He should have noticed.  _

He chokes down the guilt that is bubbling in his stomach. “Focus on breathing, alright my love? The numbness will stop but it needs time.”

Julian jumps over the rubble, he needs to find the key, yes, but he also needs to check on Ciri. Their brave little swallow who saved them with her chaos. 

“Ciri,” he shouts running to where he left her. He doesn’t have to pass the hill though because he finds her standing at its highest point, scouring the view. She didn’t pass out this time. He’s glad she didn’t. 

“Where’s Geralt?” she asks and he hates how weak and scared her voice is. 

“He’s alive, don’t worry sweetheart,” he says, “Where’s Beetle? We’ll need her help.”

Ciri’s gaze is fixed on the ground. “I’m sorry,” she says, “she ran away. When- When the battle started. I couldn’t-”

“It’s fine,” he says and moves a hand to pet her hair but decides against it when he sees how bloody it is. “She won’t have gone far. Now, I need to find some keys from the lovely gentlemen there- No, don’t look,” he turns her around, out of the view of the horrid pile of mutilated corpses, though he realises she must have seen them already. “Stay were I can see you. Alright, little swallow?” She nods and sits down on spot. 

Fortunately, most of the Nilfgaardian soldier cadavers are intact and neatly deposited in an awkward pile where he left them --thank Melitele they weren’t scattered about from the shout. It would have been a nightmare to search them all if that was the case. 

After rummaging for a while Julian finds the bloody keys, which are drenched in blood -- _ fucking hell are they slippery _ \--, as well as several small coin-pouches and light weaponry. He pockets all the money he can and collects all the short swords and daggers his hands can fit proceeding to leave them carefully into a small pile next to Ciri. The princess looks at the weapons and shoots him a quizzical look. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. It would be a pity to leave them all here to rust,” he says with a small smile. She rolls her eyes. “We’ll exchange them in the next town that has a weaponsmith for a proper sword for you.” 

“Fine,” she says mimicking Geralt, unable to contain the small playful smile that forms on her lips. “Go get Geralt, Jaskier,” she shoos him with a hand. 

And that he does. 

Geralt is still in the same half numb state he found him, but his eyes seem less empty now; more alert. Julian quickly rids him of the shackles and with a bit of a struggle from Geralt’s side  _ \--this stubborn man _ \-- he lifts him carefully on his back. 

“Why did you come for me?” Geralt says and Julian hates how his voice breaks, how much hurt it emanates. 

“I love you Geralt. I will always- Always!- come for you,” Julian says walking slow and steady with the white-haired witcher on his back, towards Ciri.

“I- I don’t-” Geralt stammers and his breathing hitches, “I don’t deserve it”

“That’s complete and utter poppycock and you know it,” Julian says calmly, “Focus on breathing my dear witcher. For now.” He knows that when thoughts get like this, this ugly tangled messy yarn of self-loathing it isn’t easy to escape them. For him, they have stopped for over half a century now but he had help. Geralt will need help. And time. But most importantly patience. And Julian will be here for him when he’s ready to work them through, untangle them. However long it takes him to. 

“It’s- It’s your eyes,” Geralt admits and the tangy smell of shame is thick in the air. 

_ Oh fuck. _ This is about the fucking glamour, isn’t it? Geralt fell in love with Jaskier the bard. Soft, bubbly, blue-eyed Jaskier. A stark contrast between him and rugged, scarred, golden-eyed Julian, the Witcher. 

The way the doppler behaved, just a few hours ago makes so much more sense now. What did it say again?  _ Oh, right. _ ‘Gods your eyes are pretty’ it had said to the glamoured visage of Jaskier.

But Julian can tell his Witcher loves him like he loves Jaskier. He just has a hard time accepting this whole situation. That with the war and the bounty hunters and  _ gods-forbid _ he fucking mountain. And didn’t Yennefer say Geralt spent a year and a half looking for Jaskier?

“Who cares about my eyes,” Julian says softly, “Who cares if you like the blue more than the gold. I would never judge you, or stop loving you for something as silly as eye-colour. You know, I do too, like them blue more. Don’t feel ashamed, my love. Never feel ashamed! We are all dealing with immensely stressful and fucked up shit and it’s completely acceptable if our minds cannot exactly comprehend it.”

Geralt is silent but his breathing has returned to its normal pace. 

“Whenever you feel ready, know that you can always come to talk to me about these thoughts. Alright, my love?” Julian adds. 

“I will.”

_That’s a relief to hear._

The hill, while not particularly steep, is difficult to traverse in the current fashion so Julian turns his head to the side and says, “Do you think you can walk, my love? I’m afraid I’m not strong enough to carry us both up there.”

Geralt hums lowly in agreement and Julian lets him down. 

“Thank you, Jules,” he says meeting his eyes and Julian, oh Julian, can’t stop himself from pulling the White Wolf into a deep kiss. 

“You can go back to calling me Jaskier if you want,” he says under his breath, faces too close to each other, Geralt’s breath hot on his skin, “Even in public,” he adds.

“Even in public? What about your bardic reputation?”

“To fuck with it, I say! You’re more worth it,” he smiles widely and places a peck on Geralt’s cheek. “Now let’s burn these fuckers,” he gestures at the pile of corpses that lie uncomfortably close to them, “lest we want to cause Rivia a ghoul infestation.” 

And thus he Igni’s the shit out of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL!!!!! CAN I SAY I'M ETERNALLY GRATEFUL FOR ALL THE LOVE YOU'RE SHOWING THIS FIC???????   
> a gazillion thank yous <3 <3 <3   
> I'm always so happy to see you leaving comments <3 
> 
> Also did you guys see the fantastic art [StarsInMyDamnEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsInMyDamnEyes/pseuds/StarsInMyDamnEyes) of most of the [Witcher!Jaskiers???? It's gorge, go check it out! ](https://stars-in-my-damn-eyes.tumblr.com/post/617867060322713600/witcherjaskiers-anyone-id-say-something-about)
> 
> Also also, I'm @brothebro at Tumblr feel free to yell at me about the Witcher there <3 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, next on we have some more fluffy things, less angsty (as much less as I can manage of course)


	33. Of Roaches and Dung-Beetles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are idiots. That's it. That's the chapter.
> 
> -a bit of gore  
> -pitiful attempt at humour

“Dung-Beetle the Second!” Julian shouted towards nowhere in particular as his horse had seemingly vanished into thin air. He contemplated calling the black mare with a whistle but he would need to use his fingers to do so and they were currently compromised with Nilgaardian blood, so well… That was out of the question. 

“She ran off that way, Jaskier,” Ciri provided helpfully, pointing with a finger to the direction of the city.  _ Right.  _ He could have asked first and screamed his horse’s utterly ridiculous name later. 

“I don’t think a horse can understand a name that long,” Geralt says, “What compelled you to name her that?” 

“I don’t know Geralt. Why did  _ you  _ name Roach,  _ Roach _ ?” he pouts in fake-offence. 

“Hmm. I was young. I guess it was the first thing that came to my mind.”

“Excuse the language, but what the everloving horse-shit?” Julian’s eyes shoot wide in disbelief.  _ He was young, he says?  _ “I’m sorry my love but how many Roaches did you have exactly throughout your years on the Path?”

“One?” Geralt’s brow furrows in what can only be interpreted as confusion. 

“I know! She’s cursed, or magical, or something,” Ciri chirps in and Geralt looks even more perplexed. 

“Oh, definitely something of the sort,” Julian says, “Horses don’t generally live more than 30 years. And that’s stretching it,” he clarifies. 

“ _ Fuck. _ ”

* * *

They do eventually find the horse, well in health, giving trouble to an unfortunate shepherd. Apologies are made, some Nilfgaardian coins are donated to the poor man for the unfavourable death of one of his herd; namely a horse-kick, signature move of a distressed Dung-Beetle, that sent it flying and crashing on a nearby tree. And they are on their way back to Rivia, to get their things --provisions bought earlier this day included -- and collect an apparently immortal Roach from the stables. 

They are entering the city from its north gate, close to where the noble district lies, when they are stopped by the single guard. 

“Witchers,” he spits out, skittish, obviously unnerved by something, “What business have you in Rivia?”

“Returning from a contract?” Julian gestures idly to the general direction of his bloody weaponry, “You surely saw us depart from the city, not two hours ago.” 

“‘Have to warn you Witchers, if you enter Rivia you won’t be able to leave until further notice.”

“Curious, curious. I don’t remember there being a restriction as such, earlier this morn,” Julian says scratching his chin with a thumb, “But we do need to collect our immortal horse from the stables. And pay for our room at Wirsing. Wait did we pay? I don’t remember. Anywho. What can we do, what can-”

“What happened?” Geralt stops Julian’s incessant rambling. And it’s good he does because quite frankly he would have continued until the poor guard’s ears bled. Or as long as it would take the guard to compromise and strike a deal with them to allow them safe exit from the city.

“We… might need your expertise, Witchers,” the guard admits, “You see, there’s been a… strange murder not an hour ago.”

Julian raises a brow. “Elaborate, please.”

“It may be better if you see for yourself,” the man says, his face changing several colours, as what Julian can only imagine is the recollection of the murder scene.

“It could be a trap,” Geralt says in a low growl. He’s right. After all the incidents that happened today, Julian wouldn’t be surprised if this proves to be yet another pitiful attempt to separate Cirilla from her legal guardians. The girl looks scared, hiding behind Geralt as she is. 

“My partner does have a point, sir. Please, do give us a detailed description of the facts beforehand and we will consider helping you out.”

And so the guard tells them everything he knows of the crime. There haven’t been many eyewitnesses as it occurred in a dark alleyway, but from what information the city garrison could gather there were sightings of a bright flash and then the body of a woman dressed in finery and split in two vertically, appeared. 

_ It was that Nilfgaardian witch. Definitely.  _

It takes all of Julian’s concentration not to laugh out loud because firstly, the sole reinforcement Nilfgaard wanted to send after a Witcher was one petty sorceress? And secondly, well, he knew well enough of how she was “murdered”. 

_ Oh, that would be fun.  _

“We’ll help you,” Geralt says, eyes locking momentarily with Julian’s, sharing the look of being in the same page. 

* * *

The “murder scene” is disappointingly clean. And quite a letdown really. Not a lot of blood splattered about, the body lays still in a somewhat natural position --as natural as a clean-cut-from-a-portal-cadaver can be. Julian peeks from around the corner of one of the two huge stone buildings that create the alley. 

Ciri insists on coming with them and they reluctantly agree because of course, it would not exactly be wise to leave her behind. So they opt for tying a piece of dark cloth around her eyes so she’s spared the not-so-horrid-but-horrid-enough-for-a-child picture. 

The city guards restricting the passage to the scene allow them through. 

Julian and Geralt pretend to examine the scene, sharing small mischievous smiles when no-one’s looking. Julian brushes his digits on Geralt’s hand ‘accidentally’ and Geralt hums. 

“What are we going to say to them, Jaskier?” Geralt whispers in an impossibly low voice. 

“The truth. A bit embellished of course to suit our needs and protect our wonderful daughter, but the truth nonetheless,” he flashes his Witcher a grin.

“The truth it is then,” Geralt nods and crosses his arms. 

As on cue, the leader of the city guard approaches them with a question. “Well?” he asks his voice breaking slightly, unable to hide his anxiety, “Do you know what on heavens did  _ that _ ?”

“Magic,” Geralt blurts out and Julian has never felt the need to facepalm harder in his life before. 

“What my dear wolf is trying to say is that this person was a sorceress most probably, killed by her own ineptitude. From what we can tell, she tried to open a portal, fucked up royally and the portal cut her in two,” he adds, before the guard leader can utter the snarky remark Julian is sure has ready at his lips, “Nothing I’ve never seen before if I might add. They just don’t make witches like they used to,” he shakes his head. 

There’s a sigh of relief coming from the man before them. 

“You sure this wasn’t done by a monster?”

“Absolutely. There’s no monster that can manage that level of symmetry in its hits. My face is quite literally proof of that,” Julian smiles pointing at his split lips and Geralt clenches his free hand. “It’s alright darling, I don’t care about it and neither should you.”

“That’s not it, Jask.”

_ “Oh?” _

“You forgot to tell the man about the Nilfgaardian emblem we found on her.” Geralt holds out a split bracelet adorned by the sun of Nilfgaard.

“Nilfgaard? This far north?” the guard leader almost shrieks. “That’s unsettling news. The queen must be informed at once!” He commands and turns his heels to leave but stops and turns to look at them, “You have my permission to leave Rivia if you wish so, Witchers.”

“Oh thank fuck.” Julian groans. “I know you’re supposed to be from here Geralt but, by Melitele, am I  _ sick _ of this city!”

“Let’s go then. We have an immortal Roach to collect.”

“Can I remove this rag, now?” Ciri pipes in from next to them.

_ “No!” _ Both witchers speak in unison. 

“Let’s get away from the former murder now deemed accident scene first, sweetheart,” Julian takes her hand and leads her out of the alley. 

“Fine,” she groans and he’s certain she’s rolling her eyes as well. He shoots a look at Geralt, who shrugs in response.    
  
“You’re a worse influence on her than I,” the traitor says.

“ _ Is that so _ , you fucking beautiful bastard?”

“My point exactly. Sailor mouth Julian.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII :DDDD  
> Hope you enjoyed the silliness of this chapter  
> I certainly did, enjoy, writing it 
> 
> I dunno if it counts as fluff??? It does in my mind   
> but actual sweeter fluff is the next chapter
> 
> so yeah  
> sowwy uwu :3


	34. Kickstart my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, Jaskier and Ciri being a family :)
> 
> fluffy fluff

They have been moving nonstop for near a day and a half now. They are exhausted and it shows. But between the imminent threat of rogue bounty hunters and the shadow of a whole empire after their Child-Surprise… They have no choice. Geralt knows this. They have to get as far away from Rivia as possible. They have to get to Vengerberg and find Yennefer fast. 

Vengerberg would normally be a five-day ride from Rivia. If they were using roads that is. But they aren’t, actively avoiding any form of civilisation, opting for woods and arid hills instead. And that complicates things a lot. Geralt is certain they can make the trip in less than five days if they stop only when completely necessary. It’s not the first time in his years on the Path that he needed to make the journey as quick as possible. 

Alas, the horses are tired and while Geralt can go on for a couple of hours more he reckons it will be best for all of them to rest. Ciri’s passed out when the sun was still high in the sky and has been sleeping on Roach’s saddle since then, Geralt making sure she wouldn’t slip and fall. And Jaskier’s been filling the silence with all sorts of nothings and everythings, but he too has become silent for a while now.

“Do you think we can rest now, my love?” Jaskier asks glancing at him briefly, steadying his poor horse that’s begun to get irritable.

“Hmmm. I suppose it should be fine,” he responds, “Help me find a good spot to build a fire?” he offers and Jaskier nods dismounting Dung-Beetle. 

They are in a meadow, dry and barren this time of the year, surrounded by sparse trees that as they progress, form a dense forest. They are as far away from civilisation as possible and Geralt, while weary, is positive the spot is safe enough for camping. No human tracks, no monster tracks. Only the small paw-prints of rodents and foxes mark the earth. _ It’s good enough.  _

“How about here?” Jaskier’s voice sounds several paces in front of where Geralt stands.

Geralt leads the horses closer to the spot Jaskier picked and untacks them. He goes to lift Ciri and put her on a proper bedroll Jaskier has laid out and is quickly working on building a tent around it. The princess stirs awake and rubs lazily her eyes. Geralt holds her in his arms as she slips off the saddle. 

“Easy there, princess.”

“Are we in Vengerberg yet?” she asks still bleary-eyed from sleep. Geralt huffs a laugh.

“Vengerberg is still very far away,” he says, “but we’re getting there.”

“Yeah, in what, four-five days?” Jaskier chimes in, preoccupied with constructing what possibly is the most crooked tent in existence.    
  
“Jaskier.”

“Yes, Geralt?” he asks batting his eyelashes and the tent immediately comes falling on him, “Oh shit! Oh, fuck! COCK!”

“Let me fix the tent and go get some firewood, alright?” Geralt says, the corners of his mouth lifting upwards at the sight of the mess. Ciri giggles. 

“Excuse you! I am perfectly capable of fixing a tent!” he says beneath the thick brown canvas. 

Geralt hums, “I can see that.”

“Jaskier, please let Geralt do this,” Ciri says still giggling, “Please, don’t let him  _ cook _ ,” she pleads and Geralt rolls his eyes. He forgot to put salt on their food once.  _ Once _ . 

“Fine,” Jaskier accepts crawling out of the once tent. “But only because Geralt’s cooking sucks.” 

Geralt clicks his tongue as response and moves to untangle the mess Jaskier made.

“Can I help with the cooking?” Ciri runs towards Jaskier excitedly. The midday sleep was good for her.

Geralt feels his heart a tiny bit lighter when he looks at his little family. It’s a strange feeling after the  _ incident.  _ He is eternally grateful at Jaskier for never mentioning it once after… after he saved him. 

_ Right. He has a tent to fix.  _ No point dwelling on his fucked up issues now. He’s too tired for that.

So he gets to work, quietly listening to the babbling of Ciri and Jaskier. 

“So you can smell if the food isn’t going to be tasty?” Ciri asks while gathering little dried twigs and sticks for the fire. 

“Witchers can smell a lot of things,” Jaskier responds, helping her position the twigs in a nice conical pile, “We can tell people apart from their unique scent. For example, Geralt smells of stum, cotton and the scent of morning mist on a cold autumn day.”

_ Interesting.  _ Geralt suppresses the urge to smell himself. 

“What do I smell like?” Ciri asks curiosity evident in her voice.    
  
_ Lavender, fresh spring water and wild strawberries.  _

“Hmmm. That’s easy! Destiny!” Jaskier announces lifting a finger to emphasize his point and Geralt rolls his eyes. And evidently, Ciri does the same (he’s secretly proud) because Jaskier gasps dramatically before he continues talking, “Fresh spring water, strawberries and a hint lavender. You’re no fun, little swallow,” he fake-pouts.

“Geralt!” Ciri turns to face him, “What does Jaskier smell like?” Jaskier’s eyes snap at this, pupils huge and excited, barely any gold left around them, anticipating the answer.  _ Adorable.  _

“Horseshit,” Geralt smirks and Jaskier releases a shriek that would make a banshee proud.

“Makes sense,” Ciri nods seriously, joining in the game, “Like horse, like master.”

“Geraaaaalt!” he whines, “Look what you did now! Our lovely daughter is on her way to becoming a rascal because of you!”

“Oh please, I’ve been a rascal way before I met you both,” she says with a cheeky grin, “I wear the title proudly!”

_ No wonder.  _ She did grow up with Eist and Calanthe as role models, after all. And neither of them were what typical royalty is about. 

Jaskier laughs loudly and with a flick of his fingers gets the fire started, “Well,  _ rascal _ , do you think you can peel the turnips and cut the onions?” 

The girl huffs. “Of course I can! Just wait and see,” she says and walks to their saddlebags to get the fresh provisions. 

Geralt secures the tent canvas on the edges so it doesn’t come falling on them. Satisfied with his work he scoots closer to the fire. It’s been a very long two days and all he wants is a warm meal and some blessed dreamless sleep.

Jaskier has gone to procure some water from a nearby stream to make the turnip soup and is now returning with a full pot which he hangs from the metal contraption above the fire. He sits next to Geralt and brushes a hand on his cheek. 

“What do I smell like?” Jaskier asks, eyes softly glowing in the warm light of the fire. Geralt chokes down a laugh.  _ Of course, Jaskier is still thinking about that.  _ His outlandish bard. His ridiculous Witcher. 

Geralt responds with a non-committal hum. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teases. 

Jaskier moves closer, a breath away really and hums lowly in Geralt’s ear. “What must a man do to get an answer from you,  _ gorgeous _ ?” he breathes out and Geralt can feel his heart hammering in his chest. 

Of course, Ciri makes an appearance at that moment and Jaskier scoots further away. She looms over them and tosses the crudely cut vegetables over their heads straight into the pot of boiling water. 

“Move,” she commands and squeezes herself between them. She sits down and wraps her small lanky arms around their heads bringing them closer. “I’m glad that you both are my Surprise-Parents,” she whispers. 

Geralt hums softly and Jaskier ruffles the girl’s unruly hair. 

“We are too,” Jaskier coos.

Their lion cub smiles brightly and releases the headlocks, settling to fiddling with her hair instead. “I want you to cut it. My hair,” she says after a while. 

“Are you sure?” Geralt raises a dark brow. 

“Not very short,” she says, “Like Jaskier’s. Maybe- maybe  _ they  _ will need to look twice to recognise me like this.”

“First thing in the morning, we are cutting your hair then,” Jaskier smiles and plants a small kiss on her crown. 

They sit like this till the food is done cooking, exchanging stories from their youths. Stories Geralt hasn’t thought about in many many years. Stories about his wolven brothers, their childhood adventures, stories about Eskel’s one too many Surprise-pet goats (It’s a trend at this point). And Ciri giggles and smiles. Jaskier speaks a bit about his time at Haern Caduch, how he acquired his first lute  _ Magnolia _ from a burly bear Witcher that had won it in a game of Gwent, incidentally by winning against the said witcher in a game of Gwent. Geralt makes him promise to duel him at his beloved card game at some point. 

They eat their soup in comfortable silence when it’s done and then extinguish the small fire, moving to their tent after that.    
  
The bedrolls are comfortable and soft and Geralt realizes the degree of his exhaustion. He snuggles closer to Jaskier in a spur of braveness. 

“Mmmm... What is it darling?” Jaskier slurs half awake.   
  
“You asked how you smell,” he says in a low voice burying his face at the nape of his bard’s neck, inhaling deeply, “You smell like home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, That you all for the patient wait <3 And I'm sorry I took so long to write this chapter.  
> life's been wack lately :') But'm doing good I promise 
> 
> Also, I want to thank you for all the nice comments on the last chapter <3 
> 
> Yall are brilliant!  
> hope you enjoyed the fluff coz we up for a bit of angst soon enough >:D


	35. Barb(e)arian (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian does stupid sexual innuendos (sorry, sorry)  
> Geralt ventures into Vengerberg  
> Ciri has all the brain cells  
> And last but not least a new character appears!

The days are becoming shorter and shorter the further into autumn they progress. So it comes to no one’s surprise when they reach the outskirts of Vengerberg, just a few hours after they’d stopped for lunch (raw beets, courtesy of one Geralt of Rivia, who quote-unquote the tastiness of said raw root thingy beat hare-roast and what was he thinking even it was absolutely disgusting). Anyway, yes, they reach Vengerberg and the sun is already setting.

There’s a small wooded area outside the walls of the capital of Aedirn and much to Julian’s relief they decide to camp out there until they procure a certain raven-haired witch. They do not have the coin to stay at a proper inn, which quite frankly sucks balls, and there is this tiny matter of people tending to go batshit crazy when they see two witchers entering a town together (given they were quite lucky in Rivia, amidst their unluckiness, but still). Ah, yes. And the bounty on his head and also fucking Nilfgaard. Quite a list they managed to acquire there, he must say.

_ He hasn’t felt this wanted since Metinna, pardon the pun. _

Unsurprisingly, Geralt volunteers to go look for Yennefer in her house --mansion, really-- and Julian is going to stay here, in the sparsely wooded area with their brilliant daughter who’s been pestering him the past two days to teach her to play  _ Toss a Coin  _ on the lute. Of course, who’s he to disagree with such a noble request for knowledge; he’ll gladly share this skill with her, even if it’s clearly a way for her to temporarily forget all the bloody carnage she’s thus far witnessed. 

He’s reluctant to leave Geralt alone, especially after the events only five days prior, but he knows it would be completely unwise to go together. They would paint a pretty big target on their back and the last thing they need is some rando ratting them out to their -- unfortunately -- multiple enemies. 

“Let me go find her,” Julian says instead. 

Geralt crosses those big strong arms of his and shakes his head, lips pressed in a thin line. “You don’t know where her house is, Jaskier. How will you even find her?”

“I can sniff her out. Lilac and gooseberries, am I right?” he argues even though he knows Geralt has an advantage, you know, actually knowing the damn city and all. After all, from what he’s gathered during the years post the djinncident his Witcher has spent more time in Vengerberg than Kaer Morhen and that’s saying something. But he’s worried alright? He doesn’t want him to go alone in the city.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt rolls his eyes, “There’s no need for you to act like a hound. Besides, I will be fine you worrywart.”

“Ugh, fine. But please wear a disguise when you do venture into the city.”

“Yes! A disguise!” Ciri jumps excitedly from where she was sitting strumming the same two chords on the lute the past few minutes, “I know! You can wear Jaskier’s doublet!  _ Please  _ Geralt.” 

Julian chokes down the laughter bubbling in his throat because the mental image of Geralt in his sky-blue doublet is absolutely hilarious. “I wholeheartedly agree with our dearest daughter. Do take the mask and the hat as well, my love,” he says instead, his face as emotionless as he can manage, which is to say not much if the wide grin he’s sporting is any indication. 

“Not in your wildest dreams,” Geralt huffs out.

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Julian mutters under his breath because he will get to see Geralt in a fancy doublet (not the ‘sad silk trader’ one from Cintra, so many years ago) even if it’s the last thing he does. 

“I will wear my hooded cloak,“ Geralt states, ignoring Julian’s remark, “And tie my hair back.”

“Alright, but if you’re late you better know we’re coming to get you. And you can bet your firm arse I will be joining in on any potential action happening,” Julian smiles smugly. 

Geralt snorts. “ _ Jaskier _ .” 

“What? I didn’t say anything, dearest Witcher. It’s your mind that’s dirty.  _ Shame on you _ ,” he shakes his head in fake disappointment.  _ Oh, he definitely did mean exactly that.  _ He knows things with Yennefer tend to get… hot rather fast, and he’d be a fool to not partake in the inevitable. Though he doubts it will come to  _ that  _ when they have a young princess to protect.

_ Still, the offer’s now on the metaphorical table and he won’t be getting it back. _

“This... disguises conversation has got me thinking,” Geralt says and Julian raises a brow, “We are very close to the city.”

“We are.”

“I would feel safer if you were ‘Dandelion’. Until I return,” Geralt admits. And it makes sense. Anyone with a wanted poster could tell that Julian is well… Julian and while he might not mind some unexpected sword fighting, he can understand that murdering so close to civilization will inevitably cause a second Blaviken.  _ And he’d really really would like to avoid that, thank you very much.  _ If not for his (already butchered) reputation, for Geralt’s. 

“That’s not a bad idea actually,” he says and starts unfastening his armour. 

* * *

Wearing the mask when there’s no soul in the vicinity of a kilometre gets tiring really fast. But he shan’t complain, instead, he’ll focus on his songwriting --which he’s regrettably abandoned the past few days on account of vigilance-- and on fixing a nice warm supper using the last of their provisions.  _ Onion gruel it is then.  _

He really hopes Geralt returns with the sorceress soon, because he cannot stand the nasty burning worry that’s bubbling in his stomach.  _ No,  _ he tells himself,  _ there won’t be a second Rivia incident.  _ They had the time to talk about some of the most important things during the short trip to the capital of Aedirn and he has a good feeling it has to a degree helped Geralt put some things into perspective. But gods, Blaviken was really a fiasco. No wonder it messed up Geralt’s self-esteem so much. 

Regardless, the worry is here to stay and he can do nothing but wait. 

“There’s something going on in Vengerberg,” Ciri says randomly, while she steers the dubiously tasting contents of the cooking pot. Julian’s eyes go wide as plates. “It’s nothing bad,” she continues, “it just feels strange. Geralt is going to be alright, don’t worry Ja-.” 

She can’t finish her sentence as an, no, multiple, ear-deafening screeches suddenly surround them. 

_ Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!  _

Julian recognises the sound, as a pack of fucking Fleders of all things.  _ Shit.  _ He’s left his sword with his armour by the horses, who are inconveniently several paces away.  _ And now they’re running for their lives. Fucking great.  _ Still, the saddlebags lie --a smidge trampled-- by a tree trunk not-so-far-away-but-inconveniently-out-of-reach because of the dark cloud that is the Fleder swarm.

“Ciri, with me. Now.” He says and looms over her to protect her from the textbook tactic of the beasts; biting to disorient their targets. 

But Melitelle’s tits, are they many. He’s never heard of Fleders hunting in such big packs. Something must have clearly disrupted their usual hunting pattern; they usually come in pairs or trios --not fucking twenty or however the fuck many those are. 

Guarding Ciri, he shoots an Igni with one hand left and right in a futile attempt to clear the way to his equipment. Ciri has her small dagger in hand, stabbing aimlessly at the creatures if one gets too close. 

_ They are fucked, aren’t they?  _ _  
_ _  
_ Still, they press on, despite the multiple scratches and bites Julian suffers. If they can get his swords they have a chance to survive.

“Should I scream?” Ciri proposes and Julian considers it for a brief moment until he hears the distinct sound of human speech coming from nearby. They sound alarmed, they must have heard the beasts he reckons.  _ Or seen the burst of fire. Well done, Julian. _

“Don’t,” he answers and shoots another Igni burning two or three -- he’s not sure-- Fleders, “there are people close by.”

He can’t keep up with the sign casting for much longer. It’s exhausting. Just a few more paces and he can unsheath his silver sword. Just a few more paces. They can do it. 

And then he hears it; a human battlecry. 

He barely sees it as a very tall woman dressed in a fine purple dress, silver sword in hand, leaps in front of them and slashes the monsters giving him the much-needed space and time to grab his own sword and finally be of some fucking use. 

_ Fucking vampires, pests of the world.  _

With Ciri’s safety a priority, he slashes and cuts and stabs at the swarm of Fleders until each and every one of them lies dead on the ground. It’s probably one of the hardest battles of his life.  _ Not even Cintra was this bad. At least with humans, you have the time to act. _ But with the help of the mysterious woman they come out alive and mostly unharmed. Sure, his fine clothes are in tatters and he’s riddled in scratches but that’s nothing that can’t be fixed. His daughter is safe and that’s all that matters. 

“Thank you,” he says panting and takes a good look at the taller woman before him; long curly blond hair, a pair of acid green cat eyes, a long thick scar over the bridge of a broken nose. Recognition washes over his features. “B-Ber, is that you?” 

“Jules?” her eyes go wide, “What in Lebioda’s wisdom are you wearing, brother?” she points at the silver mask on his face.

He can’t contain his laughter. He laughs and laughs until his stomach hurts. “I can say the same to you,” he wheezes out and breathes in deeply to regain his composure. With an adrenaline-shaking hand, he removes the mask. 

“Dad?” Ciri looks at him puzzled and he shoots a reassuring smile at her. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Ber says and embraces him in what is a typical bone-crushing Bear School Bear-hug. 

“I see you finally did it Ber, you bastard! I’m so happy for you!”

“For the record, the name’s officially Berhilde now, Jules,” she says smiling widely, sharp canines showing. 

“It suits you,” he smiles back, freeing himself from the embrace.

“Ehm, dad?” Ciri tugs on his sleeve. 

“What is it, sweetheart? Are you hurt?”

Ciri shakes her head, “No, no, I’m fine. But the horses have run off again. And there’s a dead bat thing on our food,” she points with a finger on the small campfire that now roasts an unfortunate minor vampire. 

  
“ _ Fantastic _ .” he sighs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, not my best chapter but I really wanted to introduce Berhilde :D  
> I have this idea that most of Jaskier's peers from the Bear school ended up with completely different careers.  
> It was that specific batch of Witchers that for some unknown reason all took up some sort of art. Maybe it was the new mutations, maybe the bears weren't so strict as the other schools when it came to hobbies, who knows... 
> 
> Anyhow! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Feel free to yell at me in the comments <3 I love reading y'alls thoughts <3 
> 
> also also, I did a drawing of Berhilde if you're curious how she looks you can see [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/CBGOJ__gUiy/)
> 
> Also*3 : I'd like to apologize for the chapter being so damn late, I have been very sad for no good reason the past two weeks and that kinda made me write super slowly. Well, I hope it'll pass and I'll be able to continue writing a lot :>
> 
> **HAPPY PRIDE MONTH Y'ALL**


	36. Detective Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt ventures into Vengerberg

Geralt knows Vengerberg like he knows the back of his hand. He moves unnoticed, through narrow streets and back-alleys, avoiding crossing paths with the numerous residents of the capital city. It’s easy; he’s done it hundreds of times. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s needed to enter and leave the gem of Aedirn discreetly. 

After the encounter with Triss in Kagen, he’s been worried about Yennefer. She is without a doubt one of the greatest sorceresses and minds of the Continent, he knows that. But he cannot help but feel that there is something he’s missing, some detail of great importance. He can still feel the magic bond he shares with her and that means she’s still alive, thankfully. But...

Geralt still feels strongly for the beautiful sorceress and he knows in his heart that with or without the bond those feelings will remain. It’s love, he knows it is, but it’s different from what he feels for Jaskier. His love for her, it’s… like a torrent, violent, ever-changing but still strong, powerful, beautiful. For Jaskier, it’s… the closest thing he associates with home, warmth, security, unwavering. It’s a lot to think about but now is not the time. After all, it’s not certain that Yennefer will ever forgive him for the bullcrap he pushed on her on the mountain.

It’s a mess he’ll have to untangle somehow.  _ Not now. Not now.  _

Now, his Child-Surprise needs the mighty sorceress to teach her control over her chaos. Now, Ciri matters most. 

So he presses on, thoughts neatly tidied up in the corners of his mind, until he finally reaches the grand estate. Sadly, there is no back entrance from where he can enter-- it requires Yen’s magic to open -- so he opts for knocking on the front door. 

Sveta, Yennefer’s housekeeper opens the door wide, “Sir, Ge-” she starts saying but stops when Geralt quickly gestures to her to remain silent. She gives him a quiet understanding nod and lets him inside the house, closing the door behind them. 

“Greetings Sveta, is your mistress here?” he asks politely, while he can tell that the sorceress hasn’t been in her house for quite a long time; her signature scent of lilac and gooseberries faded in time. 

“Haven’t seen her in months, sir Geralt,” Sveta responds, her brow riddled with worry, “Did something happen? I heard lots of mages died in Sodden,” her voice is barely a whisper by the end of the sentence. 

“She’s alive,” he says to the middleaged woman, who sighs in relief, “I’ve been told by a mutual friend she arrived at Vengerberg not a month ago,” he explains. 

“I’m afraid your friend is mistaken. I’m sorry sir Geralt.”

“It’s alright, Sveta. May I have a look at her chambers? Perhaps she portaled in and out without notice,” he says calmly. He’s known the housekeeper for years; a protective woman she is. If he were someone else she wouldn’t have let him pass the threshold of the front door.  _ Well, she may have let Istredd in _ , he thinks sourly. He notices how the woman regards his request carefully and he adds, “It’s of utmost importance to find her. There’s a delicate matter only she is capable of handling safely.”  _ The delicate matter being Cirilla’s terrifying power, but it’s not wise to give this information away freely.  _

She sighs, “I’m not supposed to let anyone in sir Geralt, but since it’s you... I will accompany you to her chambers. But please, do explain to the mistress the situation when you find her. I’d very much like to keep my job.”

He hums and nods in agreement. 

* * *

Yennefer’s bedchamber is exactly as he remembers it to be; lavish and extravagant. It smells strongly of her favourite scent --lilac and gooseberries-- but her underlying natural earthy scent is missing. She hasn’t been here for a long long time. Geralt is both disappointed and concerned. He’d been meaning to apologize to her for his harsh and insensitive words on that damn mountain.  _ What was he thinking, stepping on her dreams like that?  _

“Well?” Sveta inquires.

“She hasn’t been here,” he responds. But Yennefer has definitely been in the vicinity of the capital city if Triss’ tracking spell worked correctly. And there is hardly any doubt that it did. She’s an excellent sorceress after all. But why would Yennefer visit Vengerberg and not stay at her own house? 

He will have to ask around if someone else in the city saw her.  _ Damnit.  _ Interacting with the locals in these... unusual circumstances is the last thing that Geralt wants. 

“Then, I’ll be on my way,” he says to the woman, who’s looking a bit disappointed. Thank you for your time, Sveta.”

He turns to leave when the middle-aged woman speaks up, “Oh! One last thing before you go sir Geralt. I heard of a contract in the settlement outside the walls. Mayhaps you’re interested?”

He raises a brow at her, indicating to elaborate, remembering the very empty coin pouches both Jaskier and he carry. And while he’s sceptical that it may be another Nilfgaardian ploy to get to Cirilla, he keeps in mind that the child cannot survive on roasted game for long. It’s not healthy for her.  _ This time will be different _ , he notes. He’ll enlist Jaskier’s help and they will pay extra attention to properly investigating all facts before they go to the rumoured hiding place of the supposed monster. 

_ Or perhaps, he’s overthinking again and this will be something as simple as a pack of drowners harassing the farmers.  _

“I don’t know much sir Geralt,” says Sveta, “but I know the settlement hasn’t slept properly in weeks. They say there’s a haunting in an old barn, a woman’s voice wailing during nights, or something. I heard from a friend that heard from her cousin that heard from his uncle’s wife that they tried to burn the damned place to the ground but the flames just up and refused to touch the building.”

_ That certainly seems interesting. It could be a wraith. Or a curse. And if they are especially lucky, both.  _

But first things first. He’ll return to their camp and he’ll inform his bard-witcher of the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of short chapter this time, sorry. I seem to be not able to write lengthy Geralt pov chapters.   
> I still hope you enjoyed it <3 
> 
> also, I know I say this a lot but holy heck guys thank you so much for the Kudos and the Comments <3 You seriously make my day 
> 
> In other news, my hand injury is acting up and I'll probably be writing less for some time (depends on what the doc says)


	37. The Barb(e)arian (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quality sibling time :D

“Koutso! Bolis!” Berhilde shouts atop of her lungs so suddenly Julian has to make an effort not to flinch. “Bring the wagon here, we’re stopping for the night!”

“Yes, boss!” a man’s voice echoes from outside the grove and soon a colourful covered wagon that has an inscription that says ‘The Shieldmaiden’s puppet theatre” in cursive appears. It warms Julian’s heart to see that his sister finally achieved what she longed for her entire life.  _ A theatre troupe, how fitting.  _

“Goodness gracious, what happened here?” a dwarven man clad in colourful striped attire jumps off the wagon gesturing at the mess that is the two dozens of dead Fleders. “Bloody vampires again boss?”

“Aw, shush Bolis and help me help my brother clean up his campsite.” Ber gestures to the man to the nearby corpse and hoisters a couple of Fleders on her shoulders. “Koutso, stay in the cart dear. You don’t need to see this mess.” Berhilde looks at the girl --probably a couple of years older than Cirilla-- who’s peeking from the back of the wagon, “Can you fetch some cooking supplies while you’re there?” The girl obediently scuttles behind the heavy canvas of the wagon. 

“I’ll help,” Ciri offers, falling into a jog. She seems excited for some reason, Julian notices, thinking it probably has to do with the young girl in the wagon. He sometimes forgets how kids are drawn to build friendships with others their age; it’s been too long since he was like that. Almost three lifetimes ago, in fact. He smiles fondly at his daughter and then at his sister. Oh, how much fun they had back in Haern Caduch before they realised most of them wouldn’t survive the trials. A dozen boys running around, playing hide and seek, knucklebones, snowball fighting.

_ He still remembers their names. Artgal, Kurt, Naltor, Volen, Mecik, Jarle, Gustav, Marek, Drenush. He does not recall their faces though and it pains him.  _

Julian shakes the thoughts away, promising to himself to return to Haern Caduch and visit their mass grave. He kicks angrily at a Fleder corpse before he reaches down to grab it, carrying it in the big nice pile of dead vampires meant for burning. 

* * *

Ciri falls into an easy conversation with Koutso, peeling radishes and carrots and preparing their supper while Julian, Ber and Bolis are preoccupied with tidying the campsite a bit. It doesn’t take them much time and Julian idly wonders how much time has passed. Probably not a lot but given the unexpected fight and the unfortunate consequence of cleaning up those vermin it sure seemed like an eternity. His mind wanders to Geralt, all alone in the big city and his heart clenches. 

As if on cue, Ciri snaps her gaze to him and voices her thoughts, “Shouldn’t pop be back by now?” He almost chokes trying to associate Geralt with the term ‘pop’. Father yes. Papa, maybe. But  _ pop _ ? 

“It’s too soon, little swallow. But do me a favour and call Geralt exactly that when he arrives,” he says, half a smirk forming on his lips, “I really and I mean  _ really _ want to see his reaction.”

Julian can almost imagine the sheer confusion that Geralt’s face is going to morph into. __

“Who’s Geralt?” Berhilde asks, shooting an Igni at the pile of Fleders. Julian snaps his mouth open the response ready at his tongue but Ciri is quicker. 

Ciri narrows her eyes and smirks, pointing at him, “His husband!”

“Aw, you got married, Jules?” Ber coos.

“C-Elen!” he splutters, “Ge-Geralt and I are not m-married!

“Yet,” Ciri responds firmly, “And still you act like an old married couple.” That child _. That child!  _ She’s not very wrong actually now that he thinks about it. They do, in fact, act like this. Huh. Well, he guesses it comes with the years they spent travelling together.  _ The years he was secretly longing for the white-haired Witcher, following him like a lovestruck cub. _ He idly wonders how long Geralt was secretly in love with him as well. Or at least when he realised he was. Because let’s be realistic for a moment here. His man has the emotional intelligence of a rock. 

Koutso snickers from beside Ciri, “You’re funny,” she says in a low soft voice.

“Why of course I am,” Ciri boasts bringing her hands on her waist and arching her back. “Can you show me how the puppet theatre works?” 

The other girl nods silently and takes Ciri’s hand guiding her to a colourful contraption, laying on the ‘wall’ of the wagon, depicting castles and mountains and seas. 

“That means cooking falls on poor little Bolis,” Bolis grumbles loud enough for the girls to hear. Koutso pokes her head behind the thick canvas of the wagon and sticks out her tongue.  _ Children.  _ Julian chuckles at the sight of the dwarf going red.  _ You reap what you saw.  _

“Since Bolis is going to take care of the food, why don’t we spar? Like old times.” Ber suggests already reaching for her skelligan sword. 

“What, you weren’t amazed by my astounding mastery of the sword in the earlier vampire butchering display?” 

“You were flailing your sword around like a madman, Julian,” Ber chuckles. 

“And your point is?” he raises a brow and unsheathes his steel sword, moving to attack.

Berhilde parries with grace and jabs at Julian’s exposed midriff.  _ Rest in pieces doublet.  _ He backsteps in a quick movement and brings his sword close with the intent of disarming the taller Witcher. That of course, goes awry, as all things tend to go lately, as Julian does not account on the sheer strength of his sister. 

_ Holy fuck is that woman strong! _

He holds his ground for several agonizing seconds and at the moment he decides to tumble back to rethink his strategy, Berhilde manages with a twist to disarm him, sending his sword flying several paces away. The force of the move has Julian staggering backwards till he loses his balance completely -thank you random pebble on the ground- and falls on his behind with a thud. 

Petty as he is, he kicks at the earthy ground on a futile attempt to raise a dust cloud that would hopefully allow him to reach for his sword.  _ Oh no no no no! Thank you very much but he’s not losing this battle.  _ Except, he is. 

No dust cloud means no time window for sword retrieval.  _ Fuck.  _

“Give up, Jules?” Ber smirks pointing her sword at his chest. 

And of course, that’s the moment Geralt comes barging in sword ready at his hand. He’s looking absolutely wild.  _ Oh, that fool.  _ Does he think Julian’s being attacked? Because now that he thinks about it it certainly looks that way. 

Both Berhilde and Julian do not have the time to react as a very furious Geralt is running at full speed towards them both. 

“Geralt stop!” Ciri shouts loud enough that every living being in a one-kilometre radius flinches. That, of course, includes the three Witchers currently starring at the girl. Ciri moves between Geralt and the two Bear Witchers closing his way the best she can. “She’s dad’s sister, pop. They were sparring.” She stresses each individual word. 

Geralt’s face goes through quite a number of expressions. From anger to concern, from concern to confusion and from confusion to amusement. That of course, is something takes pride in being able to decipher. If he were anyone else he’d have thought the Witcher was constipated. But he’s not and he knows the vast range of Geralt’s emotions. 

  
  


“Hmmm.” Geralt hums noncommittally and sheaths his sword, relaxing his pose, while Berhilde helps Julian stand on his feet. “ _ Pop _ ? Really, little rascal?”

Ciri shrugs in response. 

“Geralt,” Geralt extends a hand towards Berhilde and she grasps it shaking firmly and introduces herself. “So what did my idiot do, besides…” he sniffs at the air, “...fighting Katakans?” 

“Fleders,” Julian corrects lip pouting.

“Oh, there were a lot of them. At least twenty,” Berhilde helpfully provides, “they’d been bat fodder if my troupe didn’t catch sight of those bursts of Igni.”

It’s jarring seeing his man and sister side by side having a civil conversation. Well, it’s mainly because somehow Ber is taller than Geralt and that is infinitely amusing to Julian. 

“Sooooooo… Do tell love,” Julian says, theatrically looking around, “where is the scary scary witch you promised me?”

Geralt’s brow furrows and the corners of his lips turn downwards. He grunts shaking his head, “Not here.” 

“Oh, we’re in a pickle aren’t we?” Julian chuckles nervously. 

“What’s wrong Jules?” Ber asks. Ah, right. Berhilde and her troupe were on Vengerberg the last few days, perhaps they heard of a rumour of the sexy witch’s location. 

“Have you mayhaps, heard of a witch, this tall,” he gestures, “raven locks, amethyst eyes? Very very sexy and very very scary? Goes by the name of Yennefer? Because if you are, dear sister, we would very much like to know of her location.” 

“I know her name,” Ber says sceptically, “ but I’ve not heard of her lately.” 

“Oh that sucks balls now, doesn’t it… Thank you anyway, Ber” 

Geralt hums; it’s a hum of an incoming idea, Julian notices. He sure hopes it’s a good one. “What have you heard of a haunting on the settlement outside the walls?” Geralt asks Berhilde and Julian tries really hard to remain calm.

He fails.

“A  _ haunting _ ?” Julian shrieks, “Not again!”

“Calm down Jaskier, this one is a legitimate contract.”

“It is,” Berhilde agrees, “There’s some weird shit going on there, reeks of chaos. I don’t take contracts like this anymore.”

“I suppose, we do need the money.” Julian pinches the bridge of his nose, “And it does sound promising. I’m always up for weird-shit contracts as you may or may not know.”

“Of course you do,” Geralt rolls his eyes and Berhilde laughs silently. “Do you think we should take it? I don’t want our daughter to suffer from malnutrition.”

“That raises the problem of our daughter, though. We cannot take her with us and we can’t leave her alone,” he points at the large vampire pile that’s now reduced to a large pile --still-- of ashes. 

“We could stay in town for a few more days, watch over her while you two are preoccupied with the contract,” Berhilde suggests.  _ It is not a bad idea actually.  _ Julian trusts his sister with his life. Geralt, on the other hand, looks sceptical. “And  _ my  _ daughter, Koutso over there, will keep her company. They already look like they are getting along nicely.”

“Hmmm.”

“That means ‘fine’, if you don’t know the mysterious Geraltian language, sis,” Julian smiles brightly. 

_ It’s a plan then!  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore yall <3  
> much love <3 
> 
> and look at this brilliant art of many [Witcher!Jaskiers!!!!!](https://astraaeterna.tumblr.com/post/621108196284792832/inspired-by-stars-in-my-damn-eyes-to-throw)
> 
> hope yall enjoyed this chapter and HECK! I am excited to write the next one!!!! finally!


	38. A kind of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bois are somft and in love<3  
> Julian is an exemplary Witcher *cough* not *cough*  
> Geralt is competent 
> 
> Warnings:  
> -implied sexual content  
> -hatred towards witchers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, sorry for the epic late update loves  
> we were in quite a bit of a heatwave these past weeks, here in summer-hell-land and I felt burned quite literally after work  
> (I could only work on fics during weekends and only when social life was sleeping)
> 
> So, apologies. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> xoxo <3

The sparse canopy of the trees lets just enough of the autumn morning sun pass, illuminating the yellowing and orange leaves beautifully. Julian and Geralt are walking side by side, clad in their respective armours, despite Julian’s insistence that they should go ‘undercover’ by exchanging and mix-matching their armour pieces. Geralt’s no fun, shooting down Julian’s plans with a simple grunt and a denying hand-gesture. 

Still, of course, that’s hardly a big issue. Julian is happy enough to be going for a proper contract with his Wolf. Gently, he brushes his digits against Geralt’s while they are walking and when Geralt cocks an eyebrow and smirks, this small cocky smirk he loves so much, at him, it takes all his resolve not to pull his witcher into the foliage. 

_ He is, after all, a very tactile person.  _

_ A very touch-starved tactile person. _

Nevertheless, he does not do so and instead interlocks his fingers with Geralt’s and is surprised to find his love tightening the grip.  _ Job first, job first, job first Julian!  _

“You know,” Geralt starts and Julian bites the inside of his cheek because damn. Twenty plus years and that voice still gives him goosebumps-- the good kind of course. “We don’t have to rush to get to the settlement, Jaskier.”

_ Is he? Can it be? Oh, sweet Melitele.  _   
  


He bites his lips and swallows audibly, “You mean…?”

Geralt leans closer to his ear and whispers, “I do.” 

* * *

Well, that was sure something. Julian barely believes it actually happened. After twenty-three long years. 

_ Wooooh boy! _ He wanted that, so fucking much.  _ And it was better than he could ever have imagined.  _

“Wait,” Geralt says as they are approaching the settlement outside Vengerberg’s thick walls, “You have leaves in your hair,” he leans closer with the intent of clearing Julian’s hair of the unwilling invaders. 

“And who’s fault is that?” Julian retorts, unable to morph his wide smile to a fake pout, ending up with a weird toothy grin instead. 

Geralt snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes, a tiny hint of pink --so tiny it could easily be mistaken for his natural colour-- colouring his cheeks and ears.  _ Adorable.  _

“There,” Geralt says, removing the last leaf off Julian’s hair. “Can’t have the villagers thinking you a leshen.”

“Geraaaaalt!” Julian shrieks in mock horror. He crosses his hands and tilts his head slightly, “Well, it doesn’t make much difference if I look like a dishevelled hermit that slept in a bush now, does it? People see this ugly mffg--” he can’t get out the word right because Geralt pinches his cheeks with one strong hand. 

“Never call yourself ugly,” he says, his voice strong and intimidating, “You. Are. Not. Ugly,” he releases his grip on Julian’s cheek and softens his eyes, “You’re beautiful. Both inside and outside. Fuck anyone who won’t acknowledge that as a fact.”

“Is that an invitation?” Julian jokes, but deep inside him, he feels the warmth and love melt his little bardic heart. Music flows once again in his veins as he’s struck with sudden inspiration.  _ If he arranges the notes like this, hmmm, make this part repeat… Should he add an improvised lute strumming part as well, or should he not? As for the lyrics… he’s got to think it through and he doesn’t have his notebook with him currently. _

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt’s voice serves as an anchor that pulls him back, grounds his thoughts.  _ Ah, yes.  _ Julian said a stupid joke again. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

“Ah, right, the contract, yes, good good.”

* * *

The settlement that lies on the outskirts of the great capital citadel of Aedirn is quite typically consisting of assorted little farmhouses, chicken coops and barns and stables housing various animals. There’s a quite large wooden building that stands out, its big sign depicting a mug of ale and what presumably is supposed to be a chicken. Next to it stands a noticeboard chock full with scribbled parchments.

The farmers give them strange appraising looks --because of course they do-- keeping their children close while the two scary scary Witchers move to the noticeboard. As they approach and are in a reading distance of the board (400 Ducats for the contract, nice!) what can only be described as a common tavern thug stands in their way; piss drunk and dishevelled. 

“Since when’s Witchers travel in pairs?” he slurs and points a finger, “We don’t want yer kind ‘ere!” he raises the volume of his voice.  _ Ugh, typical.  _

Julian rolls his eyes as he knows damn well there’s no point in conversing with a piss-drunk lowlife.  _ Melitele’s plump tits, how much ale had the man? It practically covers his natural sour scent completely. _

Geralt on the other hand, gestures at the chock full noticeboard, “ _ Really _ ?” he snarks.

“Come on Geralt. Let’s just get the bare minimum of needed information and leave this  _ very lovely place, _ ” Julian locks arms with his White wolf, pulling him back before the stupid piece of shite arsehole pulls a knife on him or something. 

“Ye ploughing freaks! Yer ain’t going anywhere, ye hear me?” the drunkard yells pulling a hunting knife from his belt and waving it clumsily at them, predictably. But before he can manage to do any harm --on himself mostly waving the knife like that, but it still counts-- a burly woman rushes to the scene slapping the drunkard’s arm forcing him to lose his already lousy grip on his weapon and by extension propelling it straight to the dirt ground. 

“Bala!” the woman scolds, so furious and red Julian is afraid she might burst a vein. “We want the kind witchers here. We all haven’t slept properly in nigh a bloody month! So shut the fuck up or there’s no ale - no don’t look at me like that- and no Gwent for you for the next month!” 

Julian is unable to contain his laughter as the drunkard man whimpers and apologises, eyes fixed hard on the ground similar to a child scolded for eating one too many slices of pie. 

“ _ Jules _ ,” Geralt calls, presumably to stop him from laughing his ass off, but unfortunately for him it only makes him laugh harder. “Jules shut the fuck up,” he pleads, “We have a job to do.” 

“Right, sorry sorry,” he wheezes out trying to calm his breathing. The woman glares at him and he feels the need to clarify that he was indeed only making fun of the Bala fella and not her. “So, how may we be of service to this gorgeous outskirt of Vengerberg?” he asks instead. 

“We heard of a haunting,” Geralt supplies. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it a haunting,” the woman says and both witchers cock an eyebrow at her, prompting her to elaborate. “See, there hasn’t been a sighting of a ghost or wraith, no matter what poppycock the drunks are spewing. And no one’s disappeared either. But there’s been a lot of noise- a wailing, a lament if you might- from the barn over there,” she points at a nondescript wooden building. “We can’t sleep sir Witchers and that’s putting everyone on edge.” 

“Didn’t anybody volunteer to find out what’s happening in there?” Julian queries. 

“That’s the thing,” she responds, sighing loudly, “The one brave enough to venture close to the blasted building said she saw strange things. She had to be dragged away from it to regain consciousness. And then there were those that tried burning the cursed thing to the ground but the fire wouldn’t get lit.”

“Most definitely curious,” Julian remarks, “Do you think it’s a curse Geralt?”

Geralt grunts negatively, “There’s too much chaos for it to be a curse.” 

Julian sniffs the air.  _ Ugh, yeah, definitely too much chaos. Bloody hell. Who could be capable of that?  _ “You're right, love. Good thing we’re chaos resistant then!” he slaps a hand on Geralt’s back, playfully. 

“We need to talk to the witnesses,” Geralt states, ignoring Julian’s playful banter, “Can you tell us where we can find the ones that tried to enter?” he asks the woman. 

The woman presses her lips into a thin like and exhales deeply, “She’s dead. Fell off a roof trying to mend it during a thunderstorm not a week ago. Stupid brave girl. We all miss her.”

Julian shares a look with Geralt because firstly, poor witness and secondly whyever the fuck would someone climb a roof during a thunderstorm?

“Right, our condolences,” Julian says after a moment of silence, “Not much we can do then but venture in by ourselves. And with no preparation to boot! Oh, fun!” 

Geralt shakes his head, “I can’t believe I have to agree with you, mister  _ no self-preservation instinct. _ ”

“Oh shush, we both know you love me.”

“Never claimed I didn’t.”

Julian grins and steals a glance at the woman’s expression which cannot settle between surprise and confusion. 

_ Oh, that is precious.  _

* * *

The nondescript inconspicuous barn of horror lies only a few meters away from the noticeboard, weak fencing guarding it, probably meant for the small animals that once resided there. The stench of chaos is heavy in the air around it and it reminds Julian a lot of the heavy smell of magic that came from Sodden Hill the day they found Ciri (or rather Ciri found them. He’s still confused on how Destiny works, to be honest). 

“We should place some Yrden traps around it,” Geralt says and Julian can feel a shiver down his spine. He must have made a hissing sound --again-- because Geralt looks at him with big questioning eyes. “You don’t think it’s better to be safe than sorry?”

“It’s not that. Well, this is rather embarrassing. You see, as a wee lad in Haern Caduch I may, well, have skipped a few lessons… concerning signs…”

“You don’t know how to use Yrden,” Geralt sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Nope, but to my defence, I never really had to use it, so…”

“You’ve never taken a wraith or spectre contract?” Geralt asks in disbelief.  _ Well, that’s a rude assumption! Of course, he’s dealt with those pesty not worth their coin bastards before!  _

“I have,” he responds truthfully. 

Geralt cocks an eyebrow and crosses his arms, “ _ How _ ?”

“Uuuh… A lot of bombs? Obviously.”

Geralt flutters his eyes like he’s having a hard time processing what Julian just said.  _ Rude.  _

“Bombs.  _ Right _ . Kudos for that,” Geralt finally says, “Wait here until I place the traps, Jaskier.”

“Hey, I can help!” Julian says, very much not staying put as his lovely wolf requested of him and instead follows him around the presumably cursed building. “I know the sign of Flar -- or, or Flam, is it called? I don’t remember.”

“Hmm… And what does this mysterious, obviously made-up sign do?” Geralt asks dryly. 

“First of all, it’s not made up and secondly, it makes a  _ whoosh  _ \--” he gestures lifting both his arms in the air, despite Geralt not looking his way, “--of intense light. Now that I think about it, I’m moderately certain it’s called Flar. And it has saved my lovely arse in multiple situations, thank you very much.” 

Geralt hums not deigning to give a properly worded response -- _ perhaps he’s depleted his words for the day _ . Julian knows in his guts that his witcher means ‘Interesting but you’ll tell me later.’

“Alright, ready,” Geralt says and makes an ‘after you’ gesture towards the big double door. Julian nods a ‘why thank you’ readying his weapon --silver for monsters-- and pulls the one side of the door open, taking a big confident step forward. Geralt follows close, closing the door behind him. 

What they see they don’t expect at all. 

Amidst small farm animals lies a girl, spine as crooked as her jaw, crying softly. She sniffles and looks up, her brilliant amethyst eyes piercing right through them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it <3  
> And I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!  
> I'm quite happy with how it turned out :)


	39. Boulevard of Broken Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we peer a bit on Yen's past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not try to correct me for the 4 Marks scene. I changed the animal because of personal reasons that I will not disclose. And anyway, this is an AU I can change all the details I like :D Thanks for understanding <3 
> 
> Enjoy <3 And sorry for the long wait.  
> I will try posting at least once a week from now on.

Julian’s eyes meet the girl’s. She reminds him of someone, he’s sure. Yet, not quite. It’s a young thing, barely fourteen summers old, her amethyst eyes rimmed red and puffy from crying. 

“Is everything alright, girl?” he finds himself asking and quickly adds, “Don’t be afraid, we’re here to help.”

The girl flinches retreating further into the room her eyes shying away and her hands form a protective shield in front of her. Julian hears the distinct sound of rusty door hinges opening. But that can’t be. None of the farmers dares to come close to the allegedly cursed barn. Especially when not one but two Witchers have already claimed the contract. He glances to Geralt next to him and his heart almost stills when he sees a man, dirty and rugged, phase through the white-haired witcher. 

Geralt lies frozen in place, holding his breath till the man finally steps in front of him. 

‘What the fuck,’ Julian mouths glancing between Geralt and the man. 

Geralt opens his mouth to speak but the mysterious man stomps angry at the dirt ground and spits all sorts of profanities to the girl, who is now pleading to let her go. 

“I did my job the best I could, father,” she says between sobs, tears rolling freely down her cheeks.

“Shut your trap you worthless bastard!” the man screams and raises a hand to hit the girl. Julian rushes towards him, eyes flaming with anger.  _ How dare this bloody whoreson treat a child like this?  _ He intents to grab the bastard by the collar and punch him into oblivion. Alas, his fingers seep into the man’s neck, catching nothing but air and Julian can’t do anything but watch as the scene unfolds. 

It’s unfair damnit. No child should have to go through this. 

He steals a glance at Geralt, who looks as angry as Julian is feeling. “Illusion,” Geralt spits out. 

“No,” Julian shakes his head, “It’s too specific. We don’t even know this girl.” And as these words leave his lips the world around them shakes and swirls, all colours mash together and suddenly they are outside between a small herd of sheep.

They are still in Vengerberg, he notices. The walls are still standing tall, encircling the big city. But everything else is different. They are still in the same outskirts, the same settlement. Yet, everything around them is different. The houses are not where they are supposed to be, the dirt roads cross and tangle narrower, in different spots. Not even the trees are the same. There is an absence of greenery where Julian can swear was an abundance mere moments before and there are spaces barren where once lied a great oak. 

“We’re in someone’s memories,” Geralt says, brow furrowing in concern. 

“We’re in the girl’s memories,” Julian specifies as the same girl walks out of a door, a bucket of food carried with both hands, moving through the chicken coop and right towards them. She stumbles and falls, her father’s face painted with anger. 

“What are you doing, girl?” he hisses, droplets of spit escaping his clenched teeth. 

“I can do it,” she says, never meeting his eyes. It must hurt Julian, thinks, watching her stumble and wobble trying to lift the bucket. He wants to help the girl so much and it pains him that he’s unable to interact with her. Julian wishes he could just bring her with his little family.

Geralt points to the distance and following his gaze Julian catches sight of a beautiful woman, clad in a fine silk dress approaching the farm. A noble or a sorceress perhaps, he can’t tell from this far away. 

That's the mark of Aretuza hanging around her slim neck. Oh yes. Totally a sorceress.

“How much for a lamb?” asks the sorceress the man, evaluating the girl. Why would a sorceress need a lamb anyway? Perhaps for some of these witchy rituals, Yennefer was quite the fan of?

“Ten marks,” responds the man and Julian flinches momentarily. Aedirn hasn’t used this particular coin for quite many decades now. That’s odd. How old are these memories they’ve found themselves involuntary spectators? Geralt must have had the same thought because Julian can hear him mumble the word ‘marks’ under his breath like he’s trying to calculate the date of this… ordeal. 

“And how much for this one?” the sorceress tilts her head and locks eyes with the girl. Julian makes no effort to hide his disgust; he frowns and let’s out an ‘eesh’ sound. 

“Now that’s disgusting,” he talks to no one in particular -- well, maybe to Geralt. It’s nothing new of course, sorceresses buying children to train in their fancy magicky schools. Hell, Witchers weren’t much better. Berhilde herself was bought from her parents by a Witcher he’s long forgotten the name of.  _ Right bastard he was. _

“Four marks,” the voice of the man interrupts Julian’s thought-mumbling. 

“Oh for fucks sake you whoreson!” Julian exclaims and beside his better judgement kicks the man in the shins and is once again surprised when his leg doesn’t connect with the man.

The scenery changes once more and the two Witchers find themselves in a dark stone room. The girl is there and Julian assumes it’s the place the sorceress took her to. Aretuza. He’s heard a lot about the fabled school of magic and none of what he’s heard could quite catch how depressing it is. 

The stagnant feeling of sorrow fills each inch of the air, distant sounds of girls screaming, wailing, sobbing filling the silence of the night. It’s not right. None of it is. 

Images flash before his eyes and the scenery morphs and changes rapidly; a broken mirror, blood, lightning in a bottle, sacrifice, girls turning to eels, blood, sacrifice, pain. 

The girl, a young woman now, is strapped on a surgical chair, a man operating on her. He’s pulling something from inside her and once Julian realises what he’s witnessing, he averts his eyes. Geralt has long since stopped watching and lays motionless, eyelids shut. And it’s for the best. No one should have to see this. This so very private moment. 

_ He’s removing her womb. Melitele, save her, Melitele, protect her.  _

Julian peers one last hesitant look. 

Fuck. 

How could he not recognise the young woman before? How could he see those amethyst eyes and, this strong spirit and not connect the dots. 

Before him stands a recently transformed Yennefer of Vengerberg in all her witch-y glory. Before him stands a woman reborn from suffering anguish and pain. 

“Yen,” he hears Geralt say in a voice so soft, so vulnerable it makes the hairs on his neck stand up. 

As quickly as a torrent, they stand in soft sand, a dark cloudy canopy formed above them. The air smells of the sea's salt and they see Yennefer crying softly, burying a small baby. In a shallow grave. It's barely six months old. 

Julian swallows hard. Suddenly so much makes sense about the witch he knows. So much. She's so much more than he initially thought. He looks at Geralt, the white-haired Witcher's expression utterly heartbroken. 

He extends a reluctant hand, brushing his love's cheeks softly.

But then. 

But then comes the darkness. 

Julian opens his eyes in a field, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of buttercups. He gazes at the field, tries to catch his Witcher's scent, heartbeat, anything. 

But Geralt is nowhere to be seen. 

The thin long blades of the grass tickle his arms and he hears a childish laughter bubbling in his throat. He looks around, feels his body spin and and laugh, laugh, laugh. Everything seems huge; the trees, the grass, the flowers.

And he realises he’s five again. Careless child, about to get claimed by a Witcher. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3 I adore you all so much and I've missed you <3  
> Summer is,,, very harsh in my country and the heatwave is intense. (and I don't have an AC unit so yeah,,,)  
> I could not function well the past month and a half and I apologize for the wait. 
> 
> <3


	40. Time is a cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We peer into Julian's past  
> -angsty angst  
> -he's one unlucky fella, or is he?

Julian is eight now. 

He’s training ruthlessly hard in the unforgiving cold of the Amell mountains. Haern Caduch is his home now, as it is to dozens of witchers and hundreds of children. 

He doesn’t know why he’s here. They won’t tell him. All he knows is that he misses his mum and that he’s so sick and tired of the hours upon hours of physical training. It’s been a year since it started and he hasn’t been uninjured since. A black eye here, a broken arm there. He can’t count how many bruises he sports.

It hurts. Everything hurts. 

He cries frequently and because he does they make him train even harder. 

_ He learns to hide his feelings.  _

Brawls are encouraged here, they are expected of the young residents of the grand witcher keep. All the boys are older than him and they love to pick on him and fight with him because he’s smaller. They tell him so. There is no one to call his friend there, only bullies and rivals. 

* * *

Julian is nine years old when a new batch of boys arrives at the keep. Most of them seem to be around his age and when Julian asks his teachers about them, the man shrugs and says Horst bought them from a starving village. 

The way he says the word ‘bought’ so casually makes Julian’s stomach tumble and protest. It’s not right. 

None of it is. 

_ He wants to go home to Lettenhove.  _

The boys are scared.  _ And they should be _ , he thinks. 

Just as the new boys move in the older boys are taken from their shared room and they never return. Julian hears whispers of trials gone wrong and a new mass grave and his heart beats uncontrollably in his chest. 

What are they going to do with them? Why do they need so many boys? Why did they dig a new mass grave? 

Did all those older boys die?

Did those ‘trials’ kill them?

He cries that night but he’s not alone this time. The newcomers cry with him, save one. A boy that introduced himself as Berholt -- Ber for short-- doesn’t shed a single tear. His green eyes dark with fury. 

He knows. That boy knows something. 

“I’ve been here four winters,” Julian whispers, reaching a shaky hand at Ber, who’s been trying to open the thick wooden door of their room for several hours now, “there’s no way out of this place. They locked us in for the night. They used to do that a lot when I first arrived, but they stopped after a while --they will stop after a while.” 

“We must escape,” the boy says with so much urgency it makes Julian anxious.

“We’re high up on the Amell mountains. We can’t escape, we’ll die if we try.” 

“You don’t understand!” Ber yells, grabbing both of Julian’s arms, “They are going to make us like them! They are going to make us witchers, mutants,  _ freaks _ !” 

“We’re going to be warriors,” Julian tells him, “kill monsters for a living. I know as much.” 

“But we aren’t going to be human,” Ber sobs, the tears now welling up in his eyes threatening to spill. 

“But we’re going to be alive. And away from here,” Julian instills his voice with fake courage. He doesn’t like the idea of not being human; it’s scary. All of it is so scary. But he knows the ones who escape always die. Their bodies return to the keep mangled, broken, wrong. 

_ He doesn’t want to die. _

* * *

Julian is twelve when they take him away, strap him to a cold --so frigid cold-- metal table. It’s time to get his first mutations, they tell him. Time to start his new life as a witcher. 

By this point, he knows there’s a very slim chance he’ll survive the process. And if he does he’ll be changed forever. 

He’ll be a witcher. A mutant. A freak. His life an endless cycle of contract, hunt, payment. He has no illusions of noble deeds and heroics left. 

His alchemy instructor together with a sorceress he’s never seen before in the keep, start administering vile tasting concoctions to him. 

He can feel every nerve on his body on fire. It burns, it hurts. He feels like he’s melting, falling in a mould, his body reshaping itself one stabbing, agonizing ache at a time. He screams his throat out until he feels the taste of copper fill his mouth. He tosses and tugs against his restraints until deep blue and purple bruises adorn his limbs, his midriff, his neck. 

Everything hurts. 

It hurts so goddamn much. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been strapped on that metal table so many before him have left their last breath on. All he knows is that each potion hurts more than the last. Every potion tearing his body apart more and more. He idly wonders if there’s anything of him left when the process is finished. 

Twelve potions he counts. 

He stays awake during all twelve potions. He fears if he lets the pain win, if he succumbs to it he’ll never see the sun rise and set again. 

He fears he’ll be just another dead boy in a mass grave, his name lost in the void. 

_ Only Ber, Markus and Julian survive the trial of the grasses.  _

* * *

Julian is seventeen. 

His training is complete, medallion and twin swords acquired. Lady Spring has already made her grand entrance on the Continent, the days warmer and longer, the heavy snow that covers the Amell mountains and by extension Haern Caduch, thawing, melting, giving way to little plants and flowers. 

Julian’s itching to leave the keep. He’s itching to meet new people; people that aren’t his instructors or peers. 

And finally, the day comes. 

He wears his heavy armour, chainmail and leather intermixed. A layer of fur around his neck. He untacks his horse --a beautiful stallion he calls Pegasus-- and sets on the Path for the first time. 

He’s confident, prepared. He knows what to expect, what monsters to kill, what potions to make. 

It takes him three days to reach the closest human settlement at the foot of the mountain. There are no contracts there --he knows there’s seldom any there, so many witchers passing through throughout the year. But there’s a tavern. There are people. Humans. Elves. Dwarves.

He enters the tavern without a moment’s hesitation. It smells heavenly of various foods, alcohol and the sweet peachy scent of joy. A bard is playing a jaunty tune, her voice lovely and this… stringed wooden machine that seems to produces lovely sharp and mellow sounds is even better. 

Julian sits in the most corner table --as instructed by his mentors--, his eyes fixed on the bard, a small smile forming on his lips. 

The barmaid approaches his table obstructing his view of the ongoing performance. But he doesn’t mind. She’s around his age, if he can guess correctly, a warm smile adorning her beautiful flushed face. 

_ Melitele, she’s gorgeous. _

“What would you like?” she asks, her voice sweeter than honey. 

“Y- you,” Julian blurts out and he feels his slow witcher heart escalate. 

She winks at him --gods! She winks at  _ him _ and whispers conspiratorially close to his ear, “Midnight, behind the tavern.”

He waits patiently and when the moon is high on the sky he goes to find her. They share kisses under the stars, fast and rushed, hot and passionate. 

That is until her father breaks them apart screaming and yelling all sort of imaginative profanities. 

Monster. Mutant. Witcher. Scum. 

It’s fine. He can take it. He knows what the good people of the Continent think of his brethren. 

_ It’s fine.  _

But then the girl he was sharing sweet kisses moments before curses at him, spits at him. She accuses him of using magic on her. She would never touch mutant filth she vows. 

And it hurts. It hurts so much. 

He runs away, as fast as his horse can take him.

A day later bandits ambush him, demanding his silver sword and medallion. He acquires his first facial scar that day. 

He makes his first kill that day. But it’s not a monster he’s learned all about it on the bestiary. No, it’s not a monster. It’s a person. 

His first kill is a person. 

* * *

Julian is thirty years old when he decides to pay a visit to his hometown. He’s quite honestly tired of the Path and its accompanying loneliness. His only companion his horse --Fly, he’s named this one-- and the gorgeous Magnolia, a simple 5-course lute he won in a game of Gwent. 

Mayhaps, somebody out there will remember him. 

Mayhaps, he’ll get that short reprieve he longs for. 

He knows Lettenhove lies somewhere in Kerack and he remembers his full name still.  _ Julian Alfred Pankratz, son of Alfred Eric Pankratz viscount de Lettenhove.  _

A contract on a few sirens -- he gets his second facial scar there -- leads him straight to his ancestral home. Beaten and bloody, his lips permanently split, his face covered in uneven stitches, but still victorious he climbs the stairs to the mansion on the hill.

An unknown man, young, in his twenties, answers the door. Bright cornflower blue eyes meet Julian’s golden and the rotten stench of fear fills the air. 

“Took care of the sirens,” Julian mumbles, the cut on his lips tugging, threatening to tear again. Damn his negligence, he shouldn’t have approached the sirens. Should have killed them with his crossbow, but  _ noooooo _ . No, he wanted to hear them sing. And now he can’t fucking smile. 

The man leads him inside, their eyes never meeting again. 

“Father, the witcher is here for his payment,” the man says. He’s a relative then! Perhaps even a sibling! Oh, this is fantastic! When he reveals who he is they are going to have a good laugh and maybe even bond over a bottle of wine and music. 

An elderly man rises from his seat and turns to face them. “Julian,” he says and Julian feels his heart accelerate. He remembers him! His father remembers him! Julian opens his mouth to speak but his father speaks again, “I told you not to bring vermin into the house, Julian.” 

Vermin?  _ Vermin??? _

His own father called him vermin? He can hardly fathom what transpired. It’s not only that he called him vermin, but it’s also that he apparently decided to name another son by his name.  _ His name!  _

Julian is furious but he won’t let it reach nor his face, neither his voice. 

“I’m afraid you have my name wrong, sir,” he says instead, “See, my name is not Vermin but Julian Alfred Pankratz and I would very much like my payment for this contract as well as a visit to my mother Marion, thank you very much,” he bows slightly, opening the burlap bag he’s carrying to show the collected heads of the sirens. 

His father’s face pales, an ugly shocked expression settling in as he digests Julian’s bold introduction.  _ Good.  _

“Mother has passed,” the other Julian blurts out.

“Oh.” These are not news he wanted to hear. His mother was a good person. He can’t remember a lot but he remembers the warmth she radiated.  _ So much warmth. _ She was a good person. She must have been. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he finally says, his voice breaking. “Well then, keep your coin, I have to pay my respects to her.” 

He leaves the mansion, never looking back, his feet carrying him to the family graveyard that lies on the side of the hill. 

He cries a lot that day. He tells his mother of the hardships of the Path, of the loneliness and the pain. And if someone, or several someones, are listening he doesn’t care. He’s not a monster. Not scum and certainly not vermin. 

He’s a man that lost his mother. 

He vows to return at Lettenhove to visit her at least once a decade. 

* * *

He’s ninety-two when he acquires the moniker ‘Julian the Childslayer of Metinna’. He gets his third facial scar. He spends months running for his life. He survives multiple trips to the dungeons, all the posh torturing techniques of the south and even once a hanging. 

_ The marks will never leave his body. _

He promises to himself to never venture below the southern borders of Nazair. 

Never again.

Still, the nightmares plague him.

* * *

He’s a hundred years old when he buys the cursed bracelet from a backwater mage in a hovel in Velen. 

He’s a century old when he meets the Butcher of Blaviken. When his life as a human begins. When Jaskier is born.

* * *

Julian is a hundred and nine years old when he claims the law of surprise in the Cintran banquet.

* * *

Julian is one hundred sixteen years old. His best friend’s ill-worded wish makes his throat hurt swollen like a melon. Hurt. Choke. Blood.

He survives it.

* * *

He’s one hundred and twenty-two when his heart breaks atop the mountain. 

Jaskier dies with his heart.

* * *

Julian is five again. Careless child playing, laughing in a meadow full of buttercups. About to get claimed by a witcher. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3 and commenting and gosh <3 you're all so lovely <3   
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it (I say through tears)
> 
> In irrelevant news: My country is approaching lockdown number 2 and I'm scared and anxious, but we'll see how it goes.


	41. Choice of the wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has to make a choice  
> Warning: Geralt has to use his words :P

Geralt finds himself trapped, watching the worst memories of Yennefer and now Jaskier too. The scenes overlap and mingle; where there are the dark halls of Aretuza the next second he sees a family graveyard at the side of a hill leading to the dark northern sea. A younger Julian is crying and the next moment Yennefer gets shoved to the ground by the whoreson her father is. 

It’s dizzying. The change of scenes makes his stomach turn. 

The lives of two of the most important people in his life unfold before him and he can’t help but think that it’s not right. It’s not right prying in their past, seeing parts of their lives even they will probably want to forget. He shouldn’t be looking at all this. 

He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. 

Since he’s the only one not affected by this wild magic he’s the one that ought to find a way to drag them out of it. 

Bits and pieces of the scenes still permeate his mind and he recalls the cold snow of Kaer Morhen, Jaskier’s melodic laughter, Yennefer’s crooked smile and Ciri’s bright green eyes in an attempt to stop this assault of pictures. To stop seeing all those things he wishes he never saw. 

He has to make a choice. Finding the physical body of at least one of his important people and waking it from this nightmare they are now both experiencing is of the utmost priority. 

But who should he choose? 

Geralt feels that no matter who he ends up choosing he’s going to be making a mistake. If he shakes Jaskier awake, who’s to say that he won’t get trapped in the nightmares again? And if he chooses Yen… Can he even wake her? What will he say? He knows a certain amount of things that the sorceress cares about and might respond to them if he mentions them, but… 

He’s reluctant. No. He’s afraid of her. He let her down once and who’s to say he won’t let her down again? 

But- 

Perhaps- 

No. He shouldn’t use their magical bond to his advantage. 

But he has to wake her up. If he wants to leave this goddamn barn and go back to his daughter. If he wants to reach the save haven that is Kaer Morhen and fucking breathe again. 

Geralt takes a deep breath focusing on the scents in the small barn. The real smells. None of the chaos induced hallucinations. 

He picks Jaskier’s scent first. Chamomile, fresh-baked bread, the smell of the rain on the earth after a heavy period of draught. He’s really close to him and when he focuses Geralt can hear his slow witcher heartbeat. 

He takes another breath focusing on the sorceress’ favourite perfume; lilac and gooseberries. It takes him some time, given that the woman probably last renewed her scent of choice a couple of weeks ago, if not more, but he picks up on it. 

He takes careful steps, small steps towards the smell. His hands extended before him as to catch any possible fall and avoid hurting himself or the others. 

The closer he gets to Yennefer the stronger the images flash in his mind, disorienting him, making his head spin and bile rise to his mouth. But he must do it, he can do it. He presses on and soon he feels the unmistakable feel of thick fabric under his boot. 

Yennefer’s dress. It must be. 

Geralt crouches down and feels with his hands, orienting himself to the sorceress’ head. He leans closer to her and whispers, presumably, close to her ear, “Yennefer.” 

He listens carefully as her heartbeat escalates ever so slightly and at that moment he knows that if he keeps talking to her she might break free from her nightmare. 

So he talks and talks. He tells her everything that made him make the stupid wish. He apologizes a hundred times over for binding them together without her consent. He didn’t know… He truly didn’t know that the djinn would twist his words so - that it would bend them so much. He just wished to save her. He couldn’t let her die. 

_ Not when she’s saved his best friend from certain death. A death he would be responsible for. _

Geralt tells her that he loved her for real, with the wish or without. She’s always been important to him even if they mixed terribly. Even if they were like oil and fire. Explosive. Destructive. 

He hears her stir a bit, the sound of eyelids fluttering deafening in his ears. 

He’s close. She’ll wake up soon. He has to continue. 

And so he does. He speaks and speaks until his mouth runs dry of words until he’s certain he’s told her everything. All his feelings, all of his cards revealed. 

And it’s liberating. Gods it’s liberating. 

“Geralt?” Yennefer croaks, her voice gravelly from unuse. 

“Yen, I’m here Yen,” he whispers, “Are you alright? Can you stand? Can you stop the spell?” 

“What spell?”

Geralt furrows his brows. He lets his defences down for a brief moment and is surprised to see or rather not see any foreign images breach his mind. He hums thoughtfully. 

Could it be over? 

Geralt opens his eyes and his gaze meets the sorceress’ cloudy eyes. She looks, beaten, burned. There’s blood matting her raven curls. Fuck. 

“Yen!” he breathes out surprised and concerned and watches as her face morphs in confusion. 

Geralt hears a breath hitch behind him --Jaskier’s breath-- and soon feels a strong hand on his shoulder. 

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says, “What happened to your eyes? Can you see?” 

Yennefer huffs and rolls her cloudy eyes, “A minor inconvenience I’m afraid. I can’t see well. But I can still discern your stupid expressions. For fuck’s sake, stop looking at me like that.” Geralt extends a hand to her and she takes it, raising to her full height. She pats her long skirt and a small cloud of dust fills the air. “Now, let’s go somewhere that doesn’t stink of… whatever the fuck is going on here,” she gestures abstractly. 

Geralt hums and takes her hand on his own and raises a brow to Jaskier who takes her other hand. “What?” Jaskier asks, “To all we know, the lady lay here for over a fortnight? She might require support ‘till her legs work properly again.” Yennefer huffs and smacks Jaskier’s hand hard. “Hey!” 

“Idiot bard,” she shakes her head and then turns to face Geralt, “I assume we’re in the vicinity of Vengerberg?”

“How-” 

“It smells like shit,” she responds and Jaskier snorts a laugh, “Can you get me to my estate? I need to do something about this seeing situation. I swear next time I see Fringilla I’ll rip her eyes out,” she whispers the last sentence under her breath. 

The fucking mage of Nilfgaard? Geralt has heard the rumours of her ruthless tactics and forbidden magic and well, considering the sheer amount of chaos and destruction on both Cintra and the Sodden hill… It’s not much of a logical jump that Fringilla is the one responsible for them both  _ and  _ for Yen’s diminishing eyesight. 

_ And perhaps even this whole charade with the Doppler too. _

“I want to leave this sad excuse of a barn before the sun sets, boys.” 

“Right, sorry right. Let’s go Geralt, shall we?” Jaskier rushes to the door and practically rips it from its hinges, “Fuck, well, if anyone asks it was broken alright?” 

“Jask,” Geralt smiles and turns his attention back to the sorceress, “Yen. What happened after Sodden? Triss was looking for you in Kagen.” 

Yennefer sighs deeply, “A shitshow, is what it was. After- after I burned the whole fucking hill I- I was weakened. Tried to portal back to Aretuza but managed as much as a couple of kilometres north of Sodden hill. Fringilla caught up with me and she did a spell on my eyes. I managed to open another portal before it was completed --hence the limited damage I presume, and ended up here.” 

“And the nightmare memories thingies?” Jaskier pipes in stepping fully outside the barn and ending exactly atop an Yrden trap that activates but he quickly sidesteps missing it by a hair’s width. Geralt exhales the breath he was holding while watching the scene unfold because he really doesn't need an Yrden-ed witcher man, who doesn’t know how to break the sign, right now. 

“You saw that?” Yennefer sounds mortified, her heartbeat escalating. 

Jaskier hums and nods and points to himself, “Saw? I got trapped in it dear witch!” he boasts. 

“You really shouldn’t sound so proud of yourself, Jules,” Geralt snorts a laugh. 

“He really shouldn’t,” Yennefer agrees, “Well, anyhow. That memory leak, I suppose, was my chaos going berserk. After Sodden… It was hard controlling the damn thing.” she looks at her hands, “Still is.”

  
  


“I’m sorry Yen,” Geralt whispers and leads her out of the damn barn. A round of applause greets them as many of the inhabitants of the small outskirt of Vengerberg stand outside the building. 

The woman they’d talked to earlier strides confidently over to them, a heavy pouch in hand and a large smile on her lips, “Thank the Goddess, sir witchers! We’ll finally catch some well sought upon shut-eye! Now, who’s the young woman? The proprietor?” 

“The young woman is at least three times older than you,” Yennefer snarls. 

Jaskier jumps in front of her and speaks up loud so that everyone present can hear him clearly, “What she means is, that it was a curse that riddled her trapped in this… lovely barn, and she’s finally free to live her life in peace. As are you. There’s going to be no more wailing, keeping you lot awake! Isn’t that grand news?” 

Geralt hums and nods in acquiescence, eyeing the quite heavy looking pouch of coin the woman’s still holding. 

The woman looks sceptical for a moment but finally nods and hands Jaskier their payment. 

“We’ll be on our way then,” Jaskier greets the crowd that is now dispersing and moves closer to Geralt and Yennefer, “Now my love, what say you we go fetch our lovely daughter and bring Yennefer here to her little mansion? I assume we’ll be safe there, no?” 

Yennefer cocks an eyebrow but says nothing. 

“Hmmm,” Geralt hums and turns to the sorceress, “Would you mind if we stayed at your house for a few days?” 

“Days?” Jaskier queries confused, “I thought we wanted to reach Kaer Morhen as soon as possible.” 

“Ciri has magic,” Geralt says to Yennefer, disregarding his bard’s quite loud protests, “She needs a teacher,” he adds.

“You want me to come with you to Kaer Morhen,” Yennefer sighs.  _ Good _ , she understood what he was insinuating. 

“We do? Ah, yes, we do,” Jaskier talks to no one in particular. Geralt shoots him a look because how is it possible that he already forgot they need Yen? Or did he just assume she would pop in and teach Ciri whenever she liked? Portals are after all, quite traceable by other mages. She’d have to come with them in the traditional way. By foot. (Or horseback, whichever she chooses).

“And you expect me to forget everything about that damn wish and play teacher for your Child-Surprise?” Yennefer hisses. 

“I’m sorry-”

“I heard you the first time, Geralt,” she exhales loudly and fixes her cloudy eyes on him.  _ It’s eerie _ . “Fine, I’ll help you out. Not for you, for the child. But promise me this, you’ll come with me when I am ready and together we’ll break the stupid bond. I know of a way.” 

Geralt grunts a yes and nods. 

“Good,” Yennefer says. 

“Fantastic! Brilliant! Excellent!” Jaskier exclaims patting Geralt on the back hard enough that makes all the air in his lungs leave him.

Geralt finds himself having to wonder at least a little bit where all the enthusiasm came from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ StarsInMyDamnEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsInMyDamnEyes/pseuds/StarsInMyDamnEyes) is a lifesaver and i owe them my life for helping out with this chapter. They wrote the last line and honestly, I think that's very cool <3 If you haven't read their fics I wholeheartedly recommend them! (hey psssss Witcher!Jaskier and Assassinskier and other cool stuff)
> 
> ps. Thank yall for the lovely comments on the last chapter<3 Yall make my days brighter <3 
> 
> hope you enjoyed this chapter and I can't wait to read your thoughts on it <3


	42. Two fools, their child-surprise and a benevolent witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer joins the party  
> Jaskier is once again an exemplar witcher
> 
> +Yennefer POV+

Yennefer is less than impressed with the situation she’s found herself in. She knew damn well what that very-much-needed spell in Sodden would do to her chaos. She took the risk and doesn’t regret it. Losing almost a month in her nightmares might not have been the ideal time off she imagined, and could have been a disaster if Geralt hadn’t pulled her out of it, but oh well, what can you do.

As for her unstable chaos… It’ll come around sooner or later. 

What she doesn’t like about this whole charade is Fringilla Viggo. The sorceress of Nilfgaard can go kindly fuck herself, how dare she attempt to blind Yennefer. What a petty move, honestly. 

Yennefer does not mind the limited sight, she still remembers seeing the world through blurry eyes in her childhood, and she knows that a pair of spectacles will make the situation less migraine inciting. Now the only thing she needs to do is pay Vengerberg’s optometrist a visit and get a fitting pair of glasses. 

It won’t be hard. After all, she has two acquaintances --friends even-- that pulled her out of the nightmare realm and back to the dreadful land of the living. Jaskier and Geralt… they are a pair of disasters, really. But she must admit they work well together. 

Contrary to popular belief, Yennefer never held any ill intent against the bard-turned-witcher. If anything she’s always enjoyed their constant sniping and bickering and the occasional gossip over good wine. It was strange back in Nazair seeing him like this -- all witchery and serious -- but she quickly came to the conclusion the man has the same mind --or rather, lacks the same wisdom-- as the bard he once was. 

Speaking of Jaskier and his lack of brains, the fool obviously managed to hook up with Geralt, and gods it was about time! Yennefer was tired watching him trudge after Geralt like a lovesick puppy. They’re both colossal idiots and therefore perfect for each other. 

As for Geralt, she supposes she still harbours feelings towards him but until that bloody djinn wish is annulled she cannot be sure they are real, and that irks her to no end. It’s very possible that the attraction is true, but the love? That’s a whole different story. Well, there’s nothing she can do about it now, she must, after all, wait for her chaos to stop being such a bitch and actually start listening to her. 

Anyhow, Fate, Destiny, however you may call the bastard, brought them all together here in Vengerberg, a war in their footsteps, and a fierce and bright royal kid. Yennefer doesn’t know why Nilfgaard is so obsessed with Cirilla.  Aside from the petty back and forth that the great kingdom of the south was trapped in with shitty northern kingdoms, like Cintra once was, there's nothing to indicate why they would want to capture the girl.

Cirilla has magic, yes, and powerful to boot, but that’s not something Nilfgaard has any business in knowing. But they might know, and that's  _ very  _ bad news if they do. 

Yennefer shakes her head. One thing at a time. First and foremost she has to get herself a pair of spectacles-- this headache must go away as soon as possible. Then, she has to find a way for the fools to protect the kid and maybe help her control and shape her chaos better. She’ll probably have to follow them to Kaer Morhen for this and it’s a choice she’s not particularly fond of but it might be for the best in the long run. And lastly, fix her own chaos and deal with the whole ordeal with the djinn. 

Well, at least she’s in her own house, relatively safe now and she has all the time she needs to plan her course of action accordingly. The fools had insisted on taking her with them to their camp to get Cirilla from Jaskier’s witcher sister -- which was a whole new experience and oddly insightful as to why the bear witcher is as he is (a hot mess). 

But now they are all here in her house (Jaskier’s sister excluded and bid farewell to) and inconvenient as it may be, she won’t let them leave until the aforementioned things are dealt with. 

She calls for her housekeeper to send word to the optometrist to come examine her at the soonest possible hour and, exhausted, falls upon her soft feathered mattress, letting nightmare free sleep embrace her.

* * *

Yennefer believes herself to be a patient woman. And she really is. Time for a sorceress does not flow the same way as it does to mere mortals. Yes, seasons still change every three months but the whole concept of the passage of time is a completely different experience for the unaging and undying. 

She’s a patient woman, but even her patience can run thin. 

And that’s exactly what’s happening here. Her spectacles have still not been delivered ten whole days later and she loathes the constant headache; and, of course, the fact that she’s unable to leave her damn house. 

The fools and the princess are also at their wits’ end pacing around the large house constantly and brooding more often than not. Geralt is especially antsy, murmuring of snow and a long trek to Kaedwen and the Blue Mountains a lot. Yennefer knows he’s worried they won’t make it to the grand witcher keep if they stay in Vengerberg any longer. 

From what Geralt told her, they have a two-week trek ahead of them in order to reach Kaer Morhen, and winter so far north starts a lot sooner. It’s already the start of November and the first snows have dusted the high peaks of the mountains.

She could hypothetically portal all of them there, of course, but portals are traceable and she does not want to come face to face with Fringilla so soon. Also, there’s this little matter of the sworn secrecy of the witcher keeps. Lacking the ingredients to create untraceable portals, she currently has no way to bring them there unnoticed. 

Anyhow, the point is, they’ve all spent too much time cooped up in her house and she’d very much like to have a word with the optometrist. In person. 

She gets up from the armchair, in which she’s been enjoying a warm cup of tea the past hour or so while having a pleasant conversation with Cirilla, and starts moving in the direction of her chambers in order to select and wear a weather, and occasion, appropriate outfit. She stops in front of one of the guestrooms she knows to be empty when she hears the distinct sound of metal against metal. 

Without a second thought, she barges in the room, facing an impromptu workshop and a very startled Jaskier. 

“Jaskier,” she starts saying, raising an eyebrow, “What the fuck are you doing?”

He gulps audibly but then shifts his posture as to present ease.  _ That ridiculous man. _ “What does it  _ look  _ like --” he stops abruptly, panicking, “Oh shit I’m sorry Yennefer.”

“Dumbass,” Yennefer smiles, “I can  _ see  _ quite well you’ve turned my spare bedroom into a workshop. I just wonder why.”

“I’ll clean up after I’m finished with this - this- I swear!”

“You better,” she crosses her arms and stalks closer. She can discern better now that there are pieces of chainmail scattered around the room and Jaskier’s holding small pliers in his hands, opening the delicate pieces of chain. “Still, you didn’t answer my question,” she presses.

“Look,” he says, the tone of his voice defensive, “I need to have my armour re-adjusted before we leave. Let’s just say I’d very much like to stay protected during the rest of the journey and that might not be possible if I don’t do the adjustments now. I should have done this some time ago, but you know how it is when you’re running for your life.”

Yennefer’s brow furrows. She can’t quite grasp the meaning behind Jaskier’s words. She’s spent years with Geralt and the white-haired witcher not once worked so meticulously on his armour. Only the occasional patch up of a tear or two. 

“I thought armours were a set deal,” she says truthfully sitting right next to Jaskier on the big double bed. He gives her one of those disbelieving looks he favours so, “What?” she asks.

He inhales sharply, “Well,” he says, “you know how each witcher school has its own unique mutations, right?” Yennefer nods. It’s known that the alchemical formulae differ from school to school. She may not know the details of said mutations but obviously, it has something to do with the dissected armour that's been spread around the room. “Bears are meant to tough out winters,” Jaskier continues, “I won’t fit in the armour, hmm, probably in a week or so. Therefore,“ he gestures to the pieces of chainmail, “I have to make it a smidge bigger. The leather vest is easy and so are the bracers but the chainmail is a whoreson to fix.” 

Alright, that explanation she did  _ not  _ expect. That’s why she hums noncommittally in response. 

“What no snide or cutting remarks? You wound me, Yennefer!” Jaskier gasps dramatically. 

She chuckles. “Well, it’s not your fault that the mutations work that way, now is it? And it’s not a bad or embarrassing thing either,” she pats his arm, “You know I only make fun of you when you’re being impossibly stupid --which is almost always-”

“Hey!” he buries his face into his hands.  _ How cute. _

“It’s the truth isn’t it?”

“It is,” he says, resigned, and looks up, locking eyes with her. She’s not sure she can get used to seeing gold instead of blue. 

“Anyhow,” she says, “I’ll be heading to that bloody optometrist to get my very delayed glasses, soon. Could use the help of a big bad witcher. What do you say?”

“Not to be untoward or anything but why me and not Geralt?”

“It’s simple math really,” she responds and smirks when she sees the very confused look on Jaskier’s face, “You’re more likely to convince the bastard to be done with his work than Geralt.”

“You sure that’s the only reason? Nothing to do…. I don’t know… with the mountain incident?” 

She shakes her head, “Is it hard to believe that I, perhaps, enjoy our little back and forths bard? Also, I’m quite tired of Geralt apologising every time we cross paths,” she admits.

Jaskier chuckles, “Don’t worry, he’ll stop doing that within the next few weeks.”

“I certainly hope so. Two dozen times I’ve told him I’m no longer mad at him. How much more until he gets it into his thick skull?” 

“Hmm… By my rough calculations, at least five more,” Jaskier jokes. He gets up, brushing dust and metal shavings from his plain clothes. He extends a hand towards her and says, “Alright, let’s get you your glasses, dear witch.”

She holds his hand and gets up. She lets him link arms with her and they move to her chambers to get her coat. As they do so they pass a very intrigued Geralt, who in typical Geralt fashion, just grunts and gestures a question with his hand. 

"I'll be accompanying our dearest witch to the eye-person," Jaskier explains.

"You have a bounty on your head, Jules," Geralt breathes out, sounding exhausted. Yennefer had been made aware of the minor inconvenience of the bard's unjust outlaw status, but she refuses to believe it's such a big deal. After all, from what they've told her the bounty was issued by a minor petty noble of Kerack, which is many kingdoms away from Aedirn. Moreover, the biggest threat was the band of bounty hunters outside Rivia that have been successfully reduced to crow fodder many days before. 

Therefore, no big deal.

She rolls her eyes at Geralt.

"I'll be wearing my hood and your armour you big worrywart," Jaskier responds with a smile.

"My armour… why?"

"Let's just say mine is not available at the moment and leave it at that. And yes, Geralt, I'll be careful with it, I know despite your whole tough-guy act that you care for its appearance. I won't maim it, I promise."

"Does it even fit you, Jask?"

Yennefer snorts a laugh at that. Of course it does, but Geralt always treated Jaskier as if he was a dainty man, which he never was, not as a human and certainly not as a witcher. 

" _ Rude _ ," Jaskier retorts but he can't hide the way his eyes smile. 

"We don't have all day. You'll have the chance to argue armours and swords and whatnot more once we're back, Geralt," Yennefer says and guides Jaskier to her chambers.

She selects her crow-black velvet sleeved cloak, fastens the delicate buttons and waits for Jaskier to wear Geralt’s armour. He emerges from the room he shares with the other witcher a while later.

The armour is a surprisingly tight fit, and the black leather looks foreign on the usually more colourful bard-witcher. 

Jaskier huffs, trying to adjust the chest piece, “It’s a tad snug, but it will do.”

“You wore it wrong!” Geralt’s voice sounds from their shared bedroom.

“You did,” Ciri giggles.

“Lies and slander!” Jaskier shrieks and leans closer to Yennefer and whispers, “I did indeed wear one piece a bit crooked. But I fixed it.”

He smiles brightly when Yennefer let’s out a quiet laugh. 

“Shall we go mister-I’m-a-professional-witcher?” she says and locks arms with him again. 

“Lead the way, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, this chapter was very fun to write!  
> Many thanks to my friends [KHansen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen) and[andrewminyards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards) for helping out with the terror that is the English grammar <3 
> 
> As you may have noticed I messed with canon once more and came up, with the help of the lovely witcher!jaskier discord, for a new headcanon about the bear school mutations! (we were talking who the buffest witcher jaskier is I think, and it kinda snowballed from there.) Now bear witchers physique shifts based on the seasons! :P 
> 
> Anyhow, hope you enjoyed this chapter <3 if u did feel free to leave me a comment <3


	43. Quoth the Magpie all the gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian and Yen go shopping!!!! 
> 
> -Julian Pov-

Julian is enjoying the retreat to the bustling city of Vengerberg. The streets are filled with life, people going about their daily business, musicians performing for meagre coin by the side of the large paved streets. He holds Yennefer close to his side, keeps his dark olive green hood down to hide his features, and lets the witch lead him to the market square to conclude their business and be on their way. 

Once upon a time, Julian, or rather Jaskier at that point of his life, was very jealous of the woman that he’s now helping out. Once upon a time, he thought she was monopolizing Geralt’s affections and he would remain eternally heartbroken, longing for an unavailable man. Now, he knows he was wrong. 

It’s been a strange few days staying at Yennefer’s house. He mostly kept to himself, not knowing how to react and what to say because, damn him, he isn’t completely daft. He can see those meaningful glances Geralt gives the witch. He can see her reluctant smile, how her eyes light up when she sees the white-haired witcher. And that’s something that makes his heart shrivel and ache. And he hates himself for it. 

Because, for every look Geralt and Yennefer share, every lingering touch, Julian does the same with the White Wolf. And he knows it’s genuine. He knows Geralt loves him deeply. Probably has for a long time. 

That’s why he’s surprised when Yennefer is the one to seek his company out and not Geralt’s. When she initiates an exchange of playful banter, of whimsical quips and half-hearted insults. When they share long conversations over finely aged wine throughout a long night. 

He loathes to admit it but he likes the woman. She’s witty and fun and her vast knowledge of many different fields of study never ceases to amaze him. 

He can see why Geralt would fall for her. 

So here he is now, walking leisurely amongst Vengerberg’s many residents, engaging in pleasant conversation with the raven-haired witch. 

“I am surprised, Jaskier,” she says prompting him to turn sharply left into a bigger street, “You were quite… snappy, the last time we met in Nazair.” 

“Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s... True, I suppose.”

“I half expect you to be, how should I put it politely… Mad with jealousy? Similar to our last meeting,” she continues.

“Oh, I am sorry I’m not up to your high standards, dearest,” he bites back, and raises a quizzical eyebrow at her -- not that she can see it, hidden as it is under the heavy hood, “Where are you going with this, Yennefer?” 

“Nowhere,” she shrugs ever so slightly, “I’m just glad there isn’t this… massive idiot shaped obstacle between us. I truly do enjoy your company, bard.” 

“You mean a Geralt shaped obstacle,” he huffs out a laugh, “Melitele knows, Yennefer I am tired of competing with you. There’s no point for all  _ this _ ,” he gestures abstractly, “You like my company and I like yours and we happen to be in love with the same man --who, I might add, has fallen head over heels for both of us.” Yennefer opens her mouth to speak but he raises a hand to stop her and continues, “Do not try to argue with me, you know it’s true.”

She hums, thoughtfully, but does not speak further. 

The silence is deafening between them until they arrive at the large marketplace. It’s one of the biggest squares Julian’s ever been to, countless stalls and businesses riddling the paved area. Scents of various cooked delicacies mingle with that of cured leather and fancy flowery perfumes; they overwhelm Julian’s sensitive nose pleasantly.

His gaze catches a rustle of gold fabric displayed on a mannequin at one of the more expensive looking shops. 

Goodness, this doublet is absolutely gorgeous. It’s similar to the one he wore in the Cintran royal banquet so many years ago, but more in line with the current fashion trends. Its sleeves are puffed as he likes it, making his shoulders wider and his waist appear trimmer than it is. It has deep royal purple embroidered accents decorating it in symmetrical floral patterns. 

_ Gods. He needs it. _

“Yennefer,” he says, pointing at the garment of his dreams.

“Jaskier,” she responds, cocking an eyebrow. 

“I need to buy this.” 

“You know I can only see a blurry shiny spot where you’re pointing at, from this distance, right?”

Oh fuck. He forgot again. Fuck. 

“It’s the most beautiful doublet that I have ever seen in my entire 123 years of living,” he explains as casually as he can muster (which even to his own ears sounds a tremendous amount more enthusiastic than what he was going for). 

“Fuck, you’re old,” Yennefer whispers under her breath before she tugs his arm, and leads him towards the tailor, “Alright, let’s go buy it. The spectacles can wait for five more minutes.”

To no-one’s surprise, the poor tailor -- a middle-aged man dressed in fine dark orange silks that complement his dark complexion-- stinks of fear as they approach him. His gaze lingers on Julian’s twin swords that hang adjacent to his hips and he swallows audibly, meeting the witcher’s eyes.

“What can I help you with, sir witcher? Ma’am?” he asks in a professional tone.  _ Kudos for that. _

“I’d like to purchase this exquisite garment,” Julian responds, gesturing to the gorgeous doublet. The tailor winces and trails his eyes across Julian, measuring, calculating. 

“Will you be wearing it, sir?” 

Julian smiles, “Why of course, I will my good man.” 

“Ah, then perhaps you’d like to try it on, make some adjustments? The lord who ordered it, never showed to claim it you see, and it was tailored to his specific body type. It might require a bit of tapering? “ the man is incredibly polite, and while still afraid, he doesn’t show it and that’s something Julian respects on a professional.

Julian shoots a look at Yennefer. They surely don’t have so much free time as to issue fixes on the doublet and from a first appraising glance it does seem to be fitting Julian’s winter body quite nicely. And, no matter, he can fix a few seams by himself without ruining a perfectly good garment. 

“There’s no need,” he responds in the end, “How much will it be?” 

“Three hundred Silvers,” the man says. Alright, that is expensive. More than he thought it would be. Well… He does have the money, from the last contract and from the Nilfgaardian swords Geralt deposited on the closest blacksmith days prior. And it’s not like they have a long journey ahead of them, he reasons. They won’t need a lot of coin in Kaer Morhen. 

It’s a tough decision. 

On the one hand, when will he get the chance to wear this work of art? Geralt, frugal as he is with his clothing choices won’t understand Julian’s need for finery. But on the other hand…

His eyes linger on the golden doublet. 

He wants it. And it’s not like he did anything for himself the past one and a half year. He was impossibly stingy with his purchases; after all, a witcher is not supposed to want finery. He doesn’t need finery. 

“Thank you, my lady,” he registers the voice of the tailor, and then sees him remove the clothing article from the mannequin and handing it to Yennefer. 

Did she-?

Yennefer hands him the carefully wrapped doublet.  _ Oh, she did. _

“You didn’t have to-” he starts but the witch interrupts him.

“Oh shush,” she rolls her eyes, “it wasn’t  _ that  _ expensive.”

“I’ll pay you back,” he rushes to say, “you can have my contract money.”

She shakes her head, dark locks escaping from behind her ear and falling to frame her face. “No need to. Take it as a… gift of goodwill if you will.” 

“I- uh- thank you, Yennefer.”

“Now,” she drawls, “the optometrist’s workshop is very close. Be a good scary  _ scary  _ witcher and scare him shitless for me?” 

“Of course, I take pride in my intimidation skills, dear Yennefer,” he half-jokes and lets her lead him to the workshop through a narrow empty street. 

“He’s just up ahead,” she stops and points to a small descending staircase.

“Alright, let’s be done with it,” he mutters to himself and is ready to approach the sought after workshop when he smells the rotten stench of fear in the air. He roots himself to place, fingers twitching millimetres above his steel sword. 

He focuses his hearing and-

-and he turns with inhuman speed, deflecting, and in the process disarming a man -- no, an adolescent boy -- who’s meant to strike him with a dagger through his back. 

Well, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy, am I happy with this current arc! You might have noticed the strong Yennskier vibes this chapter is emanating and you're not wrong. Of course, we'll still have our disasterdads, that won't change but now! Now we gonna have a disastermom too! :D
> 
> Yennefer is honestly such a delight to write and I love her interactions with Jules so darn much! 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did<3


	44. Julian Viscount de Lettenhove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> julian is in love  
> geralt is the bestest bf  
> Ciri reads vampire literature  
> Yen is a badass

The boy scuttles backwards, not bothering to get up and run properly. He’s scared shitless; Julian smells the repulsive odour of fear on him. The witcher smiles sardonically, canines in view, and the boy retreats even further into himself. 

“Well, well, well,” Julian crosses his arms and stalks towards the boy, “To what do I owe this  _ stabby _ greeting? Is it my handsome visage? Or is it something as  _ booooring  _ as a contract on my wonderful person?”

“Julian,” Yennefer huffs, “be quick. Give the mutt a lesson and come do what you promised.”

“Of course, dearest. Time is of the essence after all.”

“It’s - It’s you,” the boy croaks. 

“I’m me, yes, that much is correct,” Julian jokes, and takes another step forward cornering the boy on the damp stone wall of a building. “Do tell, youngling, who hired you to kill me?”

“No-one!” the boy bleats, “I saw a dr-drawing of your face and a big number under it, sir. I need the m-money, sir.”

Julian sighs, “Of course you did. Bloody hell, this bounty won’t let me live my life in peace!”

He’s about had enough of this stupid bounty. It’s one thing to dispatch overeager bounty hunters that know damn well what they are doing, and another thing when it’s a child whose voice only recently started to crack. He doesn't like killing humans -- nor is he in the business for it -- but he'd do anything to protect his little family from harm.

“A-are you going to k-kill me, sir?”

“You barely know what you’re doing, kid. And I’m not really one for killing humans indiscriminately, despite what that piece of shite lord that pays for the bounty might have said,” he pauses, taking in a deep breath, “You know you could have died, right? You’re what? Fourteen? Fifteen? And you go after a witcher ten times your age, who’s seen countless battles and hunts bloody monsters four times your size for a living? You do realise that that’s not wise?” 

“I -I’m sorry witcher, sir. It- it was stupid, you’re right. P-please, let me go?”

Julian looms over the kid, his scary witcher mask on, “Go,” he growls, “And forget you ever saw me.”

“R-right away, sir. I never saw you,” the kid locks eyes with him before he runs out of the narrow road and into the big open market square. 

“You handled it well,” Yennefer says, “Could have scared him a bit more, in my honest opinion.”

“He almost pissed his pants, Yennefer. I don’t think he’ll do something as stupid… in the next ten years or so.”

“Well, whatever,” Yennefer waves a hand dismissively, “Come now, we have quite important business to attend to.”

* * *

Said business is over in a matter of minutes. The moment the optometrist spots them in his little workshop he freezes and frantically searches beneath a heap of tools and junk, finding a pair of round spectacles. Well, thank fuck he didn’t resist them or demand anything. 

Yennefer is satisfied with her vision now and they can plan their next moves in relative peace. 

They take the long road back to the witch’s grand estate, hiding from crowds and busy streets, opting for hidden shortcuts when they can. Julian has his hearing focused on anything strange --he doesn't want to invite another homicidal teenager right to their hiding place-- but luckily everything seems rather peaceful. 

“I see it went well,” Geralt greets them once they enter the house. 

“It went resplendently,” Julian smiles removing the golden doublet from its packaging and flaunting it like he’s courting it, “Like my loot?” 

“It’s hideous,” Geralt grunts, but Julian can see the little smile forming on his lips. _ That dry humoured bastard. _

“Thank you, love, I like it as well.”

“Right, now that this is settled,” Yennefer smiles amused, and pats him deliberately on the small of the back, but misses for a few centimetres lower than the  _ presumably  _ desired spot, “Chop chop, off you go to finish your armour. We’re leaving at first light.” 

“You decided to come with us?” Ciri chirps, half-hidden behind a big book on magical rituals. 

“What? You don’t want me to come with, Cirilla?” Yennefer gasps in mock offence which makes Ciri huff out a laugh. 

Julian can’t stop the smile forming on his lips. Yennefer and Ciri get along like house on a fire and he’s glad his daughter found a friend (or possible mother figure, perhaps, if all goes well...) in the sorceress. 

“Stop smiling like a fool and go fix the damn thing, bard,” Yennefer says, “I mean, I am fine with it if you want to travel armourless, you surely did manage well for... what was it? Two decades? But I’d bet my newly acquired sight that that won’t be the last of this… thing that happened in town.” 

Geralt --bless him-- immediately perks up with worry, “What happened, Jask?” 

“A kid tried to collect my bounty, nothing important or difficult to deal with, love. Told the boy off and we came back quietly.” 

“That’s bad.”

“It was one kid, Geralt,” he says with a small smirk on his lips, but he quickly schools his face in a serious expression. After all, this bounty has proven to be a quite menacing little bastard, following them wherever they go. “But, I understand. That’s why we’re leaving so soon. Well, that, and the fact that I refuse to scale a mountain during a blizzard with a child following me. Now… I’ll be in the spare room armour-fixing for the next...” he counts on his fingers, “four to five hours. I really shouldn’t have left this for the last possible minute.  _ Again _ .”

“Took the liberty and continued the torso piece,” Geralt says, following him into the room. “Didn’t know how wide you wanted the sleeves, though.” 

Well, that is something he didn’t anticipate, but nonetheless accepts with glee. Less work means more hours of sleep, and if the sorceress indeed wakes them up at fuck in the morning… There won’t be a lot of time left for sleeping after he’s done mending the chainmail.

“Do you, perhaps, want to help me with the sleeves and the gambeson too, love?”  _ It’s worth a shot, asking. _

“Sure.”

* * *

Yennefer wakes them up before the first cockerel has cried the beginning of a new day. Luckily, they managed to get some hours of sleep, Geralt proving quite skilful at armour repairs. Since Julian had never seen him fix mail before, he’d just assumed up till last night that the wolves were only proficient with leather type armours. He’s glad he was wrong. 

Geralt did an amazing job, never asked a question once (Julian is eternally grateful he was spared the awkward,  _ mutations and side-effects thereof _ , conversation). 

Ciri grumbles at being awakened so early, as apparently, she stayed up late reading a whole book of  _ romantic  _ vampire literature, presenting utterly wrong depictions of vampires, if you ask Julian. The beasts are foul and conniving and none of the tall, dark and handsome the book was describing. But, well, fiction is fiction, and should always be taken with a grain of salt.

Sveta, the housekeeper, packs them breakfast and several long-lasting vegetables and dried meats for the journey and bids them goodbye, making Yennefer promise she’ll write often. 

They collect their lovely horses; Yennefer taking her own white stallion with her, and prompting Ciri onto his back. 

It’s eerily peaceful at this hour, not even guards patrolling the streets, and Julian can’t suppress the unease that twists his stomach. He hopes he’s just jumpy from yesterday’s incident, and that all will go well and they’ll set a straight course for Kaer Morhen. 

As they approach the gates he relaxes a bit, seeing that the guards are stationed at the walls, most of them slumbering at their feet, only standing up due to their spears and halberds supporting their weights.

_ All is fine,  _ he repeats to himself silently; and tugs his hood lower as they reach the massive open gate. 

Nothing seems out of the ordinary and Julian allows himself to take a deep breath and release the tension he's been holding, unclenching his fists and rolling back his stiff shoulders.

"Something's wrong," Geralt whispers and points at the deathly silent settlement that lies this way out of the walls. 

He's right. It's like the whole area has been vacated. Windowsills shut close, chimneys devoid of their characteristic grey smoke. 

_ Oh no no no no. _ He's ready to usher their horses to a quick gallop, leave this ominous place as fast as they can when several figures --some mounted, some on foot-- emerge from behind the cottages and silos.

He turns his head quickly towards the direction they came from, and, fuck, archers on the walls and half of Vengerberg's armed guard makes the return to the city impossible. 

A woman on top a tall roan stallion approaches, a sly smile painted on her scarred face.

"My, my," she drawls, "Julian of Kerak, the child slayer of Metinna. Took you long enough to leave your hiding place." 

Julian doesn't respond. His eyes fly to Yennefer, the sorceress's face scrunched up by intense thinking. He can see her calculating, planning for possible routes of escape. 

_ There's no open spot, nothing that can go through this small army. Only a portal might be able to save their skin. _

"Now, be a good criminal and surrender. I promise no big harm will come to your little-" she gestures lazily with his drawn scimitar, "- whatever  _ this  _ is." 

No  _ big _ harm she says. As if he'd believe her. Julian knows what they do to people presumed to assist known criminals. He won't let them harm his daughter, his Geralt, his  _ \--no-- the  _ witch. 

"Can you portal us out of here?" Julian hears Geralt whisper at the sorceress. 

She nods slightly.

_ Good. They might still have a chance.  _

The stench of chaos clogs his sensitive nose and he knows it won't be too long until Yennefer manages to open a portal big enough for them to pass through. 

"How uncharacteristically quiet you are," the woman shakes her head with fake disappointment, "And here I was hoping for a good banter, maybe an imaginative curse or two. I've heard so much about you,  _ Julian _ . And I believe you owe me at least a word after you slaughtered my boys like animals in Rivia." 

He wants to scream, tell her that it was _ her boys _ that ambushed them in the middle of the bloody night, that it was them that tried to kill his daughter for no other reason except because she happened to be there. And technically, he didn’t kill  _ all _ of them. A couple, maybe. The rest was Ciri’s work. 

He won’t give the bounty hunter the satisfaction of responding to her.

“Not gonna speak, are you? What, cat got your tongue?” she laughs haughtily, raising a hand to signal for something.  _ Fuck. She’s signalling the archers.  _ “Good thing we don’t need you alive for thi-” she’s cut off by the sound of a portal opening. 

“Quickly!” Yennefer shouts, “I can’t keep it open for long! Where to?”

“Lettenhove, Kerack,” he screams and prompts his horse into a gallop, passing through the portal. 

The last thing he sees is his little family entering the portal and then all goes dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone and thank you for reading!  
> This was a bit of a bridge chapter as my favourite planned arc is officially beginning and oh boy am I excited to write it! 
> 
> In other news, I am tired of my house, I have new neighbours that partyyyyy all day (good for them) and I need to have my wisdom tooth removed yay.  
> next update will be whenever I'm finished with the aforementioned business.


	45. The Count and Countess of Lettenhove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yen and Jask go on an undercover mission

Dung-Beetle the Second is a magnificent horse; long dark mane, braided neatly so that it doesn’t fall on her eyes, and matching shiny black coat. Yes, alright, sometimes she’s fickle and hard to deal with, but her strength and endurance make up for these small character flaws. Julian takes good care of her and in return only asks for her to keep him on the saddle and not below it. And it usually works.

This morning though, his darling Beetle raises herself on her back legs, jumps on her front legs and shakes wildly, neighing uncontrollably. And before Julian has the chance to cast Axii to calm her, she throws him to the dirt-road below, face first.

It’s bad enough that the portal Yennefer managed to conjure at the last possible minute, before the swords and the arrows of the combined forces of the armed guard of Vengerberg and the nasty bounty hunters turn them into spitfire roast, made his stomach twist and turn upside down. Now, he has to deal with the impromptu rodeo-induced dizziness his fickle horse brought upon him.

Just as he gets on his feet and dusts off his armour, his head starts spinning and he can feel his breakfast making a swift escape through his mouth.

Ew.

Geralt, bless him, joins in the fun, dropping from Roach and emptying his stomach’s contents on an unfortunate small bush.

“I see that portal induced dizziness is a Witcher thing,” Yennefer teases, before she moves to inspect them both. Julian shoots her a pained look and she rolls her pretty eyes, “You’ll be fine. Just sit down for a bit and we can move when you’re both feeling better,” she turns her attention to Ciri, who’s sporting an expression between amused and terrified, “Are you alright, princess?”

“Y-Yes,” she nods, “Where are we?”

“Lettenhove,” Julian responds breathing heavily from the mouth, trying desperately not to smell the fresh puke. “We’re in my hometown. Well, close at least. We should – if I remember correctly – take that road,” he points east, where they can barely see the blue of the sea, “and walk for half an hour and we’ll see it.”

“Hmm. Should take care of that bounty,” Geralt remarks, doing his best to stand on his feet. He sways left and right though, and Julian raises his eyebrows and shoots him a look to sit on his ass ‘till he feels better. Geralt grunts and presses his lips together but he sits down nonetheless.

“I agree,” Julian says, “I have a vague plan on how to resolve this… situation,” he meets Geralt’s gaze and bites on his lower lip, “But it involves the glamour we got from Triss.”

Geralt scoots closer and rests a hand on Julian’s cheek, “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Are you sure, love? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or -- or--”

“Had time to work things out in here,” Geralt taps his skull, “I should be fine.”

“Fine, fine, keep your secrets,” Yennefer crosses her arms but she can’t hide the small amused smile on her lips, “I assume your grand plan is to waltz in the lord’s manor as Jaskier and confront him?” 

It’s astounding how well Yennefer knows both of them. Julian wonders sometimes if she peeks inside their brains and they never notice. She’s certainly capable of it, but he feels like she respects them too much to do so. 

“Precisely,” he grins at her.

“It’s a shit plan,” Yennefer huffs out a laugh, “but with a few adjustments it might work.”

  
  


* * *

The few adjustments Yennefer mentioned turn out to be less ‘few’ and more ‘quite a lot’. First of all, she adds in the step of ‘gathering intel’ as she calls it, before the execution of her master plan. 

It’s not something Julian would do if he were going in alone, but she insists on joining him -- ‘one and a half brain are better than a half one, Jaskier’, she says -- so they do things her way. 

Julian knows the glamour he got from Triss is unstable at best and he has no way of knowing how long it will last; could be an hour or a full day. But right now he doesn’t have much choice on the matter. 

They wait on the outskirts of Lettenhove, resting from their impromptu portal travel till it’s midday, and when Yennefer deems they’ve rested enough and she’s regained enough strength to portal them out if needed, they start dressing up for their undercover mission.

Julian wears his new golden doublet as planned and when they’re outside the first few buildings of Lettenhove, he slides his glamoured ring on a finger, shuddering at the sensation of chaos enveloping him. 

He tries not to look at Geralt, fearing another panic attack coming, but his darling love embraces him and rests his forehead on his, staring deep into his glamoured eyes. 

“Come back soon. Alright, Jules?” Geralt smiles, his eyes are so full of love Julian thinks he might explode. 

“Come on, pops,” Ciri tugs Geralt’s arm, “We’ll wait at the inn.” 

Julian smiles at them and nods, interlocking arms with Yennefer, who’s now wearing a magnificently detailed burgundy gown. She looks outright stunning. 

“Shall we, my lady?”

“Of course, my fool,” she smirks and barely contains her laughter when Julian hisses a very offended ‘hey’ at her. 

"Since when are those two…?" Ciri asks, looking behind her back.

Geralt shrugs.

"Since always!" Jaskier shouts and at the same time Yennefer says, "Since yesterday."

Ciri clicks her tongue and Julian can't stop the peal of laughter from leaving his lips.

* * *

Julian and Yennefer walk the paved streets of Lettenhove with an air of grandeur; like they are nobles, noses up, scrutinizing glare at their eyes. It’s an act, of course, posing as a wealthy couple, inspecting the town before heading to meet up with the Viscount, who is surely expecting them. 

He isn’t expecting them, of course, but the peasant-folk has to be fooled if their plan is to work. 

And quickly enough, a guard approaches them, bowing deeply, “M’lord, m’lady. You’re on time for the banquet. We are glad you changed your minds and decided to attend. The Viscount will be delighted to see you.”

Banquet? Interesting. And the man has obviously mistaken them for some of the guests. He wonders if it’s the family resemblance that led to this confusion. Julian glances at Yennefer who nods ever so slightly prompting him to do the talking for now. 

“What are you waiting for, my good man,” Julian responds, chin held high, proudly, ”escort us to the estate.”

"Yes, of course, Count Pankratz, Countess. Please follow me,” the guard nods slightly and moves up ahead, towards the hill where the manor of the Viscount lies. 

Julian thanks all the gods he knows, that he still looks unmistakably like a man from his bloodline. He supposes three generations are not too many to differentiate the looks of his relatives too much. That, and the fact that the Pankratz men are supposed to marry only Keracki women, who usually match the ‘desired’ traits of dark hair and pale skin. 

Julian never understood this obsession his family had with looks. Though, he must admit he’s rather vain himself, what with his small collection of expensive silks and jewellery accumulated over the past twenty-something years. 

The guard leads them to the front door of the grand estate where two men wearing the Keracki traditional guard outfit, the tasteless fish symbol on their gambesons complete with a tacky, overly detailed, almost decorative, pike that hasn’t been sharpened in gods know how long, act as sentries. Julian wonders why they even bother with security at this point. 

“State your business,” the shorter of the two says. 

“Countess Elisabeth and Count Erenwald Pankratz,” Yennefer responds before Julian can fuck it up by mixing up the names. She must have read the thoughts of the guard that escorted them here, Julian thinks. Erenwald, huh… Exactly the kind of fancy name a member of his extended family would have. 

“We’re here for the banquet,” Julian adds, smiling sweetly at the witch at his side. Much to his surprise she mirrors him, and it’s a genuine smile as well; not an act to fool the sentries.

They let them through the doors and Julian has to keep his breathing from hitching at the sight of his paternal home. It’s almost the same as he remembers it being, nigh a century ago. The tasteless fish banners still decorate the dark stone walls of the foyer, and big round chandeliers filled with half molten handles adorn the tall ceilings. Even the carpet is similar to the blue fringed one, he was so fond of as a child. 

If Julian’s eyes water a bit, it’s no one's business but his. 

Where the foyer ends, a big open double door awaits, leading to the main hall where all socialite gatherings happen and where the good folk of Lettenhove go to have an audience with Julian’s grand-grand nephew. The very same man they need to speak to, convince or intimidate to drop the bounty on his head. Ferrant de Lettenhove. 

The soft mellow tune of a harp and the soft chatter of the nobles and attendees of the banquet, is coming from the grand hall. 

“What’s the occasion, dearest? I need to know so I don’t accidentally give away our cover,” Julian whispers the question to the sorceress. 

“Tax gathering,” Yennefer spits out, lip curled into a disapproving sneer, “They're celebrating the bountiful taxes they got from the peasant-folk this season.” 

“Oh, ew. I’d have excused a name day or a betrothal -- though this time I would make sure not to claim the law of surprise again, even if my lovely daughter would appreciate a sibling or two-”

“Erenwald, my beloved fool, you’re rambling,” Yennefer says loud enough so that all attention is drawn to them. 

“Oh, sweetling,” Julian purrs, “When am I not?” 

“Do my eyes deceive me? The elusive Count Pankratz! You look younger than I anticipated, too,” a middle-aged man, with long dark hair combed back and tied in a low ponytail, dressed in a brilliant emerald doublet, approaches them with the swagger of a man that thinks he owns the world. “Tell me, do you always allow your wife to speak to you that way?”

Julian has to physically stop himself from punching the man’s nose in. Instead, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms, he plasters his fakest smile on his face. 

“If anything, he’s the wife in this relationship,” Yennefer chuckles softly, eyes lighting up when the man splutters indignantly, obviously provoked by this display. His face becomes a deep red when Julian pulls the sorceress closer by the waist and plants a passionate kiss on her soft lips. She kisses back, hungry, insatiable. 

His treacherous heart skips a beat.

_ Fuck, now he knows why Geralt always found her so irresistible. _

“Oh, how very right you are, dearest Elisabeth,” he breathes out as they pull apart, relishing the offended and confused eyes upon them. “But we can continue this later,” he winks, “we have urgent business to discuss with Ferrant, after all.”  __

Now all that remains is to actually find Julian's foolish grand-grand nephew. Which is to say, quite difficult as he's never met the man before in his life. He can only guess he might look a tad like his brother Julian who he met briefly so many years ago.

He's not sure how to approach this matter as surely the Count Erenwald he's supposed to be would at least have a description of his relative. He shoots a questioning look at Yennefer who points with her eyes further in the hall, at an almost empty corner. 

A man clad in simple cut dark silks is leaning against the wall, swirling a glass of wine in his hand, eyes fleeting between the various nobles in the room.

That must be Ferrant then.

_ Thank Melitele for mind-reading abilities. _

Julian and Yennefer dance around the room, greeting and engaging in mundane conversations until they reach their target.

It's astounding how much Ferrant looks like Julian. No wonder they had no trouble gaining access to the manor.

Ferrant looks unperturbed by them approaching him, wearing a pleasant smile on his lips. He nods curtly and Julian feels a small zap waving through his body.

"Ferrant," Julian greets. Yennefer squeezes his arm, and he turns to look at her, her eyes wide and filled with worry.

'The glamour,' she mouths.

Bloody fuck. He glances at his hands and dread festers deep in his stomach. 

His scars are back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey! looks who's back! back again!   
> Took me a while to sit down and write anything else than Witchertober   
> but boy  
> boy am I happy with this chapter 
> 
> Hope yall liked it <3   
> And I'll be back next week-ish with a dual pov chapteroni (Ciri and Jules) because I like to trample on my own rules of only one pov per chapter :D


	46. Two times Ferrant de Lettenhove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian is cross with his great great nephew  
> Yennefer is amused  
> Ciri and Geralt lack braincells.

Ciri is lying on the small hay bed of Lettenhove’s only inn which is, to say, less than nice. She’s awfully tired; this past month and a half consisting mostly of running from one danger to the next. She sighs deeply, eyes fluttering closed and open again, taking in the various shadowy spiderwebs that adorn the ceiling – the owners seem to not value cleaning at all, it seems. 

The stay in Yennefer’s house in Vengerberg was nice while it lasted. Ciri enjoyed deeply the conversations she held with the sorceress during those days, especially those pertaining to Chaos and the use of it. She hates not being in control of her Scream, she hates how indiscriminately destructive it is. And while her two fathers are somehow, to a degree, magic resistant she knows one wrong scream, one wrong release of the chaos always bubbling in her throat could end them in seconds. Her stomach churns at the thought.

That’s why she’s anxious to start proper lessons with Yennefer. Gain proper control. 

She sighs again. 

“Are you alright, cub?” Geralt asks, never stopping pacing around the small room. Ciri can practically feel the discomfort the man emanates. He’s worried about Yennefer and Jaskier, that much is sure. 

“I’m fine pops,” she sits on the edge of the pitiful excuse of a bed, “You’re going to burn a hole to the floor from all that pacing.” 

Geralt stops, rooting himself in place. “I can’t sit here and do nothing,” he admits, “What if they need me? What if– if” – _ Jaskier’s glamour runs out earlier than expected _ , he wants to say, Ciri realises. 

“And what can we do?” she utters the question that’s dancing around in both of their minds. “What excuse can a witcher and his kid have to enter a lord’s mansion when there’s no contract of a monster posted in town?” 

“I know, Ciri. I know,” he rubs his eyes with a hand. “Still...” 

It’s utterly, ridiculously stupid and yet she can’t stop the words from escaping her mouth, “Maybe,” she pauses briefly, “we can go for a long walk. Maybe… we can pass by the viscount’s manor by ‘accident’.”

“Ciri,” Geralt scolds but his eyes praise her. She smiles brightly. 

“Come,” she says, “Let’s disguise ourselves and venture into this poor town. Just a pa and his daughter passing through, sightseeing, inconspicuously.” Her eyes glimmer with excitement. 

Geralt grunts, a small smile forming on his lips. 

“And consider this,” she says, the tone of her voice fake-lecturing, “Last anyone knew, we were in Vengerberg. Nobody will think the world-renowned White-Wolf and his Child-Surprise teleported themselves three whole kingdoms away. News don’t travel  _ that _ fast.”

“Alright, rascal,” Geralt snorts a laugh, “You make good points, you know.”

* * *

Damn it all. The glamour’s become undone. It's too soon, not even two hours since he wore it. 

"What a pleasant surprise," Ferrant says in a low voice and continues sipping from his overly expensive wine, "Julian Alfred Pankratz, I've heard a lot about your… adventures. And you must be the famed mage Yennefer of Vengerberg," he smiles, "You're here about the bounty, that our stupid relative put on your head, I reckon," he sighs. 

"You're not Ferrant?" Julian gasps.

"I could swear-" Yennefer mumbles to herself.

"Oh, I am indeed named Ferrant, too," he responds politely, the smile never leaving his features, "Though I am not the viscount, but a humble royal instigator. In any case, I already told the viscount that this bounty is a waste of resources and that it serves no purpose. But he's one stubborn whoreson, my cousin. I suppose it would be best if I led you to him to… convince him yourselves. A bit of this famed witcher magic of yours might do the trick."

_ He's referring to Axii _ , Julian realises.  _ Melitele this man is dangerous.  _ A shiver washes over him.

"What do you have to gain from this?" Yennefer asks, narrowing her eyes.

Ferrant hums, amused, “I get to stop this madness, this utterly reckless waste of royal funds and as a bonus, I get to see my foolish cousin swivel in fear. Hopefully.”

“ _ Surprisingly _ ,” Yennefer drawls, “he’s telling the truth.”

Well, that’s good, isn’t it? To have an unexpected ally on one’s mission is always more than welcome. And this Ferrant seems to have brains too, especially compared to the homonymous viscount who seems too power-hungry and too money-loving for his own good. Where is the man anyway? Is he not even attending his own stuck up party?

_ How rude. _

“Well, hypothetically speaking, of course,” Julian starts saying and Yennefer clicks her tongue in disapproval. He knows he’s going to push limits with this particular question but it also serves as a test of sorts, to see where the royal instigator’s loyalties lie. “-- What would you do if I decided to claim the title of the viscount from your cousin?”

Ferrant huffs a laugh and takes a sip from his glass of wine, “We both know you can’t legally go through with this. While your name still remains on the family’s accounts, and will remain for ages to come--”

“-- I know, I know, witchers don’t have claims for titles and lands of their previous family. To be perfectly clear, I have no intention of involving myself with this family, ever again,” Julian says, bitterness colouring his voice, “No offence, but from my limited experience the Pankratzes can be a lot to deal with.”

“Yeah no shit,” Yennefer whispers eyeing him, a smug smile painted on her lips. It takes all of his willpower not to release his famous offended-noises.  _ Not the place for this Julian, not the place.  _

“None taken, we are bastards. Each and every one of us,” Ferrant responds with a smile, “Now if you’d be so kind to follow me, ‘Count’, ‘Countess’,” he lowers his voice, “Keep your gaze to the paintings on the wall, no need to cause unrest to these  _ lovely  _ guests." Ferrant's voice drips vitriol. "They do think you’re my elusive mysterious brother at the moment and that can work to our favour. Though, I can tell you with certainty you look nothing alike which is incredibly hilarious, to be honest. You pretending to be him, I mean.”

No wonder Ferrant didn’t seem surprised in the slightest when they approached him. He probably knew all along who they were. 

Ferrant leads them quietly out of the main hall and into one of the hallways that lead to the various bedrooms, studies and lounges. Gods, he hasn’t seen this place since he was a wee child. He barely has any memories of it left. Just a vague idea of where his room used to be; somewhere further inside, close to his father’s study (he remembers him yelling for all sorts of things, every minor inconvenience that came his way).

“Well, here we are,” Ferrant says, stopping before a large oaken door knocking on it three times, “Dear cousin! I know you’re hiding in there. I have important  _ royal _ matters to discuss.”

“Ugh,” a muffled voice sounds from behind the closed door, “Come in Fer.”

Ferrant opens the door wide open revealing a mess of a study, papers upon papers stacked one on top of another, spilt ink adorning some of them and dishevelled books lying unceremoniously on the dark burgundy carpet. A young-looking man is buried behind an old dusty tome, a pair of small round spectacles slipping from his narrow nose. 

“My grand-grand nephew!” Julian announces, smirking, revealing his long canines and approaches the now deathly pale and shivering viscount, “Or is it grand-grand-grand nephew? I’m not sure of the average human lifespan I must regretfully admit. How long do you lot live for anyways? Forty years? Fifty?” he shakes his head and slams his hands on the desk in front of Ferrant number two --henceforth dubbed the bad-Ferrant in Julian's mind--, looming over him ominously, “I am disappointed my dearest nephew. Back in my day, we killed our relatives ourselves. We didn’t bloody use the viscounty’s whole budget to hire every damn bounty hunter in the Continent. Where’s your business sense gone to?” 

“Fer! Why’d you bring that- that mutant in here for?” the viscount yells, the stench of fear coming off of him is so strong it’s repulsive. 

Julian doesn't wait for Ferrant's answer and grabs the collar of the viscount’s fancy dark blue doublet, “Your business is with me,  _ ferret _ .”

“Wh-What do you want?” 

“Oh, gee! I wonder what it is?” Julian mocks, “Take the bounty down. Now.” 

Bad-Ferrant’s eyes glance between Good-Ferrant and Julian for what seems like hours before smacking his lips open to talk, face schooled in fake-bravado, “Unhand me witcher! We both know that if you hurt a hair of my head a worse fate awaits you than a simple bounty.”

“Melitele’s tits! Your marbles aren’t in the right place, are they?” Julian sighs in exasperation. “You do realise that if you had never put a bounty on my head, endangering the lives of the only people I care for, I would have never bloody come here in the first place! I have no claim on this land or its associated titles! And neither would I want to have! Explain to me,  _ nephew _ , why the bloody fuck did you think putting a bounty on my head was a good idea? Your people are clearly starving here! You are understaffed! Your guard’s weapons are bloody ancient!  _ What the fuck _ , Ferrant de Lettenhove?” 

Bad-Ferrant averts his eyes and stares pointedly at a spot on the floor. Good. It seems he understands his idiocy. 

“I thought-” he says, his voice small, wavering, “I saw you last year at the family cemetery. I dug up great-great grandfather’s diary and noticed mentions of you. The witcher in our line. I got-” 

“-scared, didn’t you?” Julian sighs and releases his grip on the viscount’s collar, “Well, sorry for paying respects to my dead mother! And what a crime really! Worth two thousand Crowns!”

“Four-thousand,” Yennefer corrects, sporting a very amused expression, “He upped it last week.” She shoots a faux apologetic look to the viscount, “Your brain isn’t well guarded I’m afraid. You should look into that.”

“Oh for the love of-” Julian starts saying but a crash and a very familiar hissing of the word ‘fuck’ interrupts him. He moves to the glass-stained window and pulls the curtains to the side. “How does this thing open,” he mutters to himself. 

“What’s wrong, Jules?” Yennefer moves closer to him, brushing delicate fingers over the window. “Did you hear something?”

Julian finds the small hook that keeps the window closed and carefully moves it. “Fuck.”

Geralt and Ciri, clad in the world’s least inconspicuous disguises are on the yard, surrounded by the small group of guards posted at the manor.  _ Oh, dear… Geralt is wearing Julian’s baby blue puffed-sleeved doublet and his crimson feathered hat while Ciri… how did she even get to Yennefer’s clothes? _

“Oh, that fool,” Yennefer mutters. 

Julian swiftly turns to the still distressed viscount, “Call your guard to release my partner and our child. And I do believe this bounty  _ inconvenience  _ is settled too?” 

Bad-Ferrant nods furiously and moves to the window yelling his commands at the guards. 

Good-Ferrant doubles over in a peal of uncontrolled laughter. 

Jullian puts his hands together, breathing out loudly before he yells: “I really want to be cross with you, love, but your ass does look divine in those pants! Could do without the doublet though! Puffy sleeves aren't really your thing.” 

"You're gross dad!" Ciri yelps.

"Am I?"

" **Yes**."

"Sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! and thank you so much for reading, commenting and all this <3   
> My town's in second quarantine officially as of today. hurray.   
> so yeaahhhhh. shit's not good right now. 
> 
> anyhow, updates will continue sporadically like always, next up we have Kaer Morhen (finally) and yeah! that's all for now!   
> hope you enjoyed reading this arc as I had a lot of fun writing it<3


	47. Born of Kaer Morhen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is big dumb and reflecting on said dumbness  
> A wild Kaer Morhen appears
> 
> Cw: Lambert's being the youngest sibling

Geralt of Rivia wants to think that he’s an alright witcher, always preparing enough for a job, never missing any details. It’s crucial in his line of work really. Without constant vigilance and an eye for detail, he’d be six feet under, many decades now.

That said, he’s not quite sure what the fuck compelled him to follow the whims of a teenager and go after the two people he holds closest to his heart, without thinking through the plan the aforementioned adolescent concocted in mere minutes. He guesses that his young daughter, the lion cub (or more like the little rascal) has this strange effect on him; he can’t quite say no when she asks for something.

In retrospect, he should have realised that dressing up in Jaskier’s silks would not, in fact, hide his mutant nature very well, even though the Bear Witcher seems to be quite skilled in that and by extension Geralt should theoretically be able to blend in better with the common folk himself.

He even wore Jaskier’s lute for fuck’s sake. He hid his very distinct hair in that hideous hat!

_He really thought it would work._

Maybe it was the sword he carried with him that gave his disguise away. Maybe it was Yennefer’s ill-fitting gown Ciri wore. Who knows?

The fact is that neither Jaskier nor Yennefer will let him live down getting caught sneaking about the lord’s garden.

The last few hours have been a right nightmare of joke after joke between his man and the sorceress directed at his person. Even the little rascal joined in after apologizing and getting -immediately!- forgiven for coaxing Geralt to such a stupidly dangerous plan. 

Hmmm. Well, he can’t really be mad at Ciri as she’s just a kid and as a responsible parent he should have stayed put in the small dirty room of that shitty inn to keep her safe. But he didn’t. And getting caught by the Guard is completely his fault (even if it was admittedly a very lousy Guard; their weapons and armour were ancient at best and the men seemed to barely know what to do with them).

So here they are now, riding their horses, Jaskier at the front, Yennefer and Ciri right behind him and Geralt on the rear watching their backs, a couple of towns away from Yspaden, the last village before the path to Kaer Morhen. 

Yennefer portaled them to Kaedwen after some consideration, deciding that it was the safest route to Kaer Morhen. After all, nothing good would await them in Aedirn even if Jaskier’s outlaw status was cleared – _and thank fuck it was_ – as the news of this wouldn’t have reached the Northeastern kingdom within a day. It’s not like Lettenhove had their own mage to distribute the message across the kingdom and it did not help that Yennefer who still didn’t exactly have her chaos on a leash (her words) was not able to help. The only remaining option was to send out several crows bearing the message and hope for the best. 

That’s why they will still avoid settlements until they’ve reached the safety of the Wolf School, opting for less travelled routes. 

* * *

It takes them two days to reach the trail that leads to Kaer Morhen. Luckily, the snows haven’t made their appearance yet and the road is clear of the slippery danger of ice. It would be disastrous if they had to pass the Killer in less perfect weather conditions. Many men and Witchers alike have found their doom on the narrow trail that twists and turns abruptly and stretches across a deep cliff. 

“I’m bored,” Ciri huffs out at some point when they still haven't even reached the middle of the Killer, “And my legs are sore.” 

They’ve been walking for quite some time now, the path uneven enough for the horses to not be able to carry them. Jaskier shoots her a sympathetic look and Yennefer sighs, adjusting her spectacles on the bridge of her nose with a hand. Both of them are uncharacteristically silent, having, apparently, exhausted all jokes at Geralt’s expense the past couple of days. It’s amazing how well they seem to communicate and how easy it is for them to engage in playful banter. _It feels right, witnessing them like this._

“We’re close,” Geralt says and points up ahead, a lone tower top visible in the distance. “Couple of hours. Tops.”

Ciri sighs audibly, “Finally...” 

“I know little Swallow,” Jaskier helps her pass a rough downslope patch, “I too, long for a warm cosy bed.”

“Hmm. Can’t promise that,” Geralt says, mentally counting the scarce furnishing of the castle. There are some hammocks they could use at the worst-case scenario. Or perhaps a pile of furs and carpets. That could work too. He already made up his mind to let Ciri and Yennefer get his bed and room. 

“You’ve no beds in Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier gasps almost breathlessly, rooting himself on the spot. Geralt rolls his eyes, a small amused smile forming on his lips. 

His ridiculous man. Honestly. 

“It’s a valid concern, Geralt,” Yennefer says, her expression a mix between amused and worried, “After all, we both know your… how to put it mildly… _infatuation_ with sleeping on the ground. Who’s to say this quirk does not apply to the rest of your siblings as well?” 

Ciri just stares at him mortified and he gives her a tight-lipped half-smile. “I don’t want to sleep on the ground for the rest of my life,” she whines. 

“You’re all being dramatic,” Geralt huffs and walks ahead of them, ignoring their collective distressed noises, “Come on, we’re very close.” It’s true they won’t have the perfect accommodations for a while but it’s still relatively early and since the bone-aching cold of the winter hasn’t settled yet, they have time to make a couple of beds if the need arises. Depends on how many will come back this year. 

Lambert and Vesemir will be there like always. But will Eskel? Coen? Who knows. The last two sometimes winter further south if the situation allows, (that means if they find an inn willing to put up with them) as they favour milder climates. 

In any case, they’ll make do with what they have. 

* * *

The big wooden gate of the keep stands tall before them. The wind is howling, passing through the nooks and crannies of the ancient walls and a comforting feeling settles on Geralt’s stomach. Home, at last. 

He feels all the stress from the past few months fleeing him at the reassuring sight of the school – undamaged from the year passed.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Lambert’s voice echoes from somewhere on the tall walls. And there he sees him, a mop of long curly red hair peeking from a crenel. Geralt waits patiently outside the big door, running a soothing hand on Roach’s mane and smiles to himself hearing his youngest brother practically jumping off the stairs and starting to huff as he pulls the ancient mechanism that opens the portcullis that restricts the access to the door. 

“Ah, Lambs,” Jaskier chuckles beside him and shakes his head. 

_Right. They know each other._

Soon enough, the portcullis has been lifted and secured and the large door opens revealing a Lambert sporting his most shit-eating grin. He looks like a child who’s about to tell on his sibling just to get them into trouble. 

“You’re awfully chipper,” Geralt comments dryly. 

“Geralt, Geralt,” he sing-songs, “How happy I am to see you, brother. I see you brought with you _many_ guests this year,” his eyes move from Geralt to Jaskier, brows furrowing slightly, and then to Yennefer and Ciri where he assumes again his shit-eating grin. 

Geralt grunts in response and rolls his eyes. He gestures with his hand to his companions to follow him inside. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Lambert hovers in front of him, arms stretched in an attempt to restrict access to the keep’s courtyard. 

Geralt grunts again. “Julian, my… man,” he chokes on the word a bit as Lambert releases an, almost contained, hissing sound, “he also goes by Jaskier. Ciri, our little rascal-”

“Hey!” Ciri cries.

“- I mean, our lovely daughter-surprise,” Geralt corrects and Ciri wraps him in a half hug. He ruffles her hair. “And Yennefer, sorceress and f- fr-”

“Friend,” Yennefer rolls her eyes, “It’s not that hard a word to say, Geralt.”

“Right. Sor-”

“Don’t. Apologise. Again.”

“Alright.” 

“Great!” Lambert claps his hands once, “This winter’s bound to be fucking interesting for once.” 

"Oh, it is," Jaskier chimes in and hums. Lambert seems to be pointedly ignoring him though, his gaze fixed on Geralt, the grin never leaving his features.

_Strange._

Geralt shoots a questioning look at Jaskier who just shruggs. 

“Hey Lambchop,” a vaguely familiar voice sounds from deeper within the courtyard and soon enough a familiar hat-wearing visage appears. The Cat. Aiden of Glyswen. _Of course, Lambert brought the Cat with him._ “Oh!” Aiden exclaims when he sees them, “Julian! Geralt! And little Fiona! And is my one good eye playing tricks on me? Is this Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

“Aiden," Yennefer acknowledges, "good to see you too, kitten,” she smirks. 

Is Geralt the only one that hadn’t met the Cat before this year?

Hm.

“Oh ho ho,” Aiden practically jumps on Lambert’s back, wrapping his arms around the Wolf witcher, (is he sniffing Lambert’s hair?) “You know what _this_ means, Lambs, don’t you?”

Lambert smirks and Geralt raises a dark brow. “The old man will finally leave us in bloody peace. After all, Geralt, brought _three_ people unannounced. Not one.”

Oh shit. He hadn't thought about Vesemir. 

Well. He should be understanding, given the situation, shouldn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy this last month has been an experience ™. Moved houses during quarantine, still unpacking, while working remotely. Like. Stress my dudes. The stress.
> 
> Anyhow, i am trying to find time to work on my wips. But time is a bit of a bastard that keeps hiding from me. 
> 
> Also, I don't know if it's overwork or some shit but i believe i am at the beginnings of a cold and i do not feel so well. (Can't be the Rona coz runny nose and stuff. Plus no fever. Plus I haven't seen a person aside my roommate-boyfriend whos also working remote and hasn't left the house.) 
> 
> Anyhow, i have plans™ for this arc and i do believe we're going to spend quite some time in Kaer Morhen, till something unexpected happens and they have to leave (spring, it's spring) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed Lambchop's appearance and hey look Aiden is here too! 
> 
> Now all that's important is Vesemir's reaction to Geralt's family and well the introduction of the "only one bed" trope but kaer Morhen style
> 
> Thanks again for being here 😊 stay safe ❤️  
> -Bro


	48. *Gasp!* And there was only one bed!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gang meets Esk-Esk and Vessy

There’s something off about Lambert. Julian is certain. He’s known the volatile witcher for a good part of half a century now and while it’s true that they haven’t seen each other at all the past twenty-three years, Lambert should be able to recognise him. Aiden did, and he’s known the Cat for less time. 

The fact remains that Lambert either failed to recognise him completely which is equal amounts hurtful and hilarious or he’s ignoring him on purpose. If the latter is the case… Lambert better have a good ass reason, or Julian will never forgive him. 

Anyhow, Lambert’s mysterious acting aside, Julian is glad to see him in one piece; almost as glad as he’s to finally arrive in Kaer Morhen. 

The keep of the wolves reminds him painfully of Haern Caduch, but the keep of the bears no longer stands and he doubts he’ll ever return there in this lifetime. Not if he can help it. Too many painful memories trapped inside the, now, ruins.

“You alright, Jask?” Geralt places a hand on his shoulder. 

Julian nods, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, love.” He takes Dung-Beetle’s reigns and follows Geralt to the stables. 

Behind them, Ciri is walking awkwardly while Yennefer and Aiden are chatting in an almost friendly manner.  _ The world is really small _ , Julian thinks and smiles. He’d never had imagined that their  _ \--the--  _ witch would be acquainted with the Cat. But then again both of them spent a great part of their lives in courts. Aiden as a hired assassin, on and off, and Yennefer… Well, wasn’t she the mage of Aedirn for half a century or some shit?

Once they've stabled their horses, Julian feels just brave enough to inquire about Lambert's odd behaviour. It's good too that Aiden is still there, making sure each horse has enough to eat and a good warm bedding to rest. 

"What's up with Lambert?" Julian asks the half-elf witcher who's currently trying not to have his hat eaten by Beetle. 

"Why? What do you mean?" 

"Apart from the fact that I seemed to be invisible to him? I thought we three were friends," if Julian's voice cracks a bit it's no-one's business but his. 

"Oh hush, I doubt it’s something serious. You know how he is; the man is practically face-blind. He probably didn't recognize you without that very distinct and overly fancy beard you sported last time he saw you."

Julian hums in thought. Well, that makes sense, he supposes. Insofar there hasn't been an occasion where Lambert had seen him beardless. Not once in thirty years. It's not a stretch that he might have not recognised him. His facial scarring is very distinct, that much is true, but a large part of it was hidden completely by the beard in the past. That's the reason, too, that he'd grown it long-ish and thick. 

Well, isn't that a great opportunity and a fantastic reason to grow his beard again?

"You're thinking something stupid," Aiden remarks, "that's your stupid idea face."

"I don't have a stupid idea face," Julian scoffs. 

"But you do," Yennefer provides very helpfully, from the next stable over, rummaging through her saddlebags for… something. Julian isn't sure what she's looking for. He's fairly certain they put most of their light stuff like clothing in there.

"Thanks a lot, dearest."

"Always," she smirks at him.

* * *

Geralt leads them to the main hall of the keep. It's sparsely furnished, Julian notices, which means Geralt wasn't joking about the possibility that there may not be enough beds. Dread festers deep in his stomach at the thought of having to sleep on the stone floor. 

Well, if it comes to this he'll take it upon himself to build some proper beds for him and his family. 

In any case, the grand hall of Kaer Morhen, whilst frugal, looks homey enough, a big hearth warming and lighting the space in the middle and a couple of long tables with attached benches positioned near it.

Lambert is nowhere to be seen but another wolf Julian hasn't met before, who’s scarred as much as himself, puts the book he was reading aside and gets up to greet them politely. He introduces himself as Eskel. He doesn't engage in conversation much though, saying that they're probably tired from the trip and offering to bring blankets up to Geralt's room. 

Eskel seems like a nice quiet man; more verbose than Geralt and a lot less… sailor mouthed than Lambert. Julian gets the feeling they'll have some things in common, as his eye catches the title of the book Eskel was reading: Poems from the 10th century. 

Geralt leads them further up ahead, passing through the big kitchen area and a quite sketchy looking alchemy lab, where they see the last and eldest member of the wolves. It’s most likely that Vesemir, Julian heard Lambert talking about earlier  _ and  _ in the past. 

_ Strict fucker -- something -- bastard runs us rugged -- something _ , a Lambert voice says in his mind. Well, that will be fun.

“Pops,” Ciri calls on Geralt, “Can I get something to eat from the kitchen? I’m starving.”

Geralt looks between the old man in the alchemy room, who’s mixing some potions or… something and the kitchen. He presses his lips into a thin line and hums in thought. “Ask Jaskier to give you some of his _ ‘hidden stash’ _ of dried meat. We’ll eat properly, dinner, later.” 

“Hey!” Julian yelps, “What are you insinuating, Geralt?” 

“What? Nothing. It’s just a fact. You’ve been carrying a pouch filled with snacks on your person ever since I’ve known you.”

Yennefer, the traitor, chuckles at this. 

“Ugh, sue me for having a very effective system for prolonged travel and/or hunts…” He rolls his eyes and turns his attention to his daughter, “Ciri, sweetheart, I have some dried figs too if you want.” Julian procures a leather pouch from his belt and hands it to the girl.

Ciri nods furiously and takes the bag, “Thanks, dad. You’re the best!” 

“You hear that, you two? I’m the best,” his chest swells with pride.

“Don’t make me take it back,” Ciri says with a semi-serious expression, barely containing her laughter and Julian gasps dramatically, hand splayed on his chest and everything. 

“If you’re done with the dramatics,” the old man puts down the mortar and the pestle he’s been using to mix --Julian sniffs the air discreetly-- bloodwort and thyme, and crosses his arms, “I would like to know why Geralt didn’t deem it important enough to inform me he’d be bringing back two guests with him, this year.” 

_ Yeesh _ . Now that is the look of a very,  _ very  _ cross man. 

“Two?” Geralt tilts his head slightly in confusion. 

“Your child-surprise is always welcome here,” Vesemir explains and shoots a small smile at the girl, “As all children of surprise have been since the founding of this school. But as for those two… I would like a  _ very good _ explanation. A sorceress and a Bear,” he scoffs, “Where did you even find a Bear, pup?”

“I-” Geralt clears his throat, “Couldn’t endanger Ciri’s life and send a letter. We were being chased by multiple groups since... Cintra fell.”

Vesemir raises a brow, “Very well.” Julian can still see the  _ ‘but still what are those two doing here?’ _ in the other man’s eyes.

“If I may, explai-” Julian starts but Vesemir cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. 

“You may not.” 

Julian smacks his lips closed. Better not enrage the elder witcher any more. Yennefer puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and locks eyes with him. “Don’t talk.” that looks says. 

“You know,” Geralt starts reluctantly, “that Jaskier is Ciri’s second father of surprise. I’ve told you the story.”

Vesemir’s both eyebrows shoot to his crown, “Hmm. Jaskier as fas as I remember is a bard.”

Julian flinches instinctively. So Geralt has been talking about him when they would spend the winters apart. He’s not sure why he thought the taciturn witcher wouldn’t, to be honest. After all, they spent twenty years travelling with each other as company. It makes sense that Geralt would mention him once or twice to his family. Still, it warms his heart and he feels a small smile creeping up on him. 

“That is true,” Geralt responds, “Also a witcher who broke me out of the Cintran dungeon.”

“What were you doing in-” Vesemir clicks his tongue, “Never mind, we’ve plenty of time to unravel all this,” he sighs loudly, “And the witch?”

“Yennefer is a friend,” Geralt says with confidence and briefly glances at the sorceress who nods satisfied with his answer, “and she will teach Ciri how to use her chaos.” 

“Hmm. I see. I’ll be clear with you; you’re expected to pull your weight around here,” Vesemir narrows his eyes clearly looking at Julian, and Julian does not want to guess what this means, “all of you.”

“Thank you, Ves,” Geralt says in an almost breathless voice. 

Vesemir turns his back and proceeds to continue with his work as if this whole conversation never happened. Julian gets the feeling, the old man is going to run them ragged all winter long. Be it chores or training -- or quite possibly both -- it’s going to be bone-aching tiring. 

“Come on,” Geralt says, gesturing to Yen, Ciri and him to follow him, “Let’s get our stuff upstairs. To my room.”

* * *

Apparently, Geralt has chosen the most inconvenient room in the keep, high up in one of its still-standing towers. The ascent there takes a long time, more than Julian’s tired legs are willing to put up with. What with carrying their quite frankly, heavy travelling equipment, it’s outright hell. 

There at the top of the stairs, Eskel is waiting for them, a big pile of folded blankets and furs balancing delicately on his arms. Julian moves to help the other witcher, laying the saddlebags he’s carrying to the side.

“Thanks,” nods Eskel and passes through the old worn doorway as Yennefer opens the door. 

The room is quite large, circular, with a big fireplace column exactly in the middle of it. Like the rest of the keep, it’s sparsely furnished. A very large bed is in the furthest corner? No, side of the room, a couple of dressers next to it, a desk and a small bookshelf on the right side and a hammock hanging between a wall and a stone pillar. 

Ciri’s eyes go wide when she spots the hammock, dropping everything she carries to jump on the blasted thing and swing, giggling the whole time. Julian smiles at the sight of his daughter acting age-appropriate. 

“I claim the hammock as my bed!” Ciri exclaims. 

Geralt snorts a laugh, “You’ll get a stiff neck sleeping there.”

“And you’ll catch a cold most likely,” Julian adds.

“I will not,” she pouts. 

“Suit yourself, little rascal.” 

“Speaking about sleeping arrangements,” Yennefer says, “Is there perhaps another room with a bed? Maybe a recliner or chaise lounge if not a bed?”

Geralt makes a hissing sound.  _ Oh, no. _

It’s Eskel who answers though, “Seeing as everyone will be here this year, I’m afraid we’re out of available beds and rooms. Well, there are empty rooms but they haven’t been occupied in, gods, fifty years?” 

“I’ll pass on the cold, damp, empty, and probably ghost-infested, rooms,” Yennefer fixes her spectacles with a hand. 

“Thought so,” Eskel hums. 

“Wait, what about Coen’s room?” Geralt asks. 

“He’s due to arrive tomorrow,” Eskel responds, “Got a letter a week ago.”

“I see,” Geralt smiles, “Yen and Ciri will get the bed and we’ll sleep on the floor, Jules.” 

Oh, dear. Talk about uncomfortable arrangements. 

“Ciri, will sleep on the hammock, thank you very much,” Ciri crosses her arms, and almost falls off the hammock as she loses her balance. 

“Alright, alright, little swallow,” Julian chuckles, “Then, Yennefer gets the bed and Geralt and I the floor.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yennefer scoffs, “the bed is big enough for three people. And it’s just sleeping. Plus it will be temporary; once I get my chaos back in control I’ll summon a proper bed for myself and Ciri. Understood?”

“ _ Yes, ma’am, _ ” Julian responds and a peal of laughter escapes Eskel’s lips. Geralt just looks uncomfortable. “Oh hush, love, I’ll sleep in the middle and separate you both,” he grins. 

“I like that, bard,” Yennefer agrees with a smile. 

_ It’s settled then!  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello! long time no see!   
> bit of a bridge episode this one, but an important one nonetheless for the big plans I've well, planned.   
> Ves is anxiously doing internal math to figure out when the pantry will run out of food.   
> Let's hope Coen will bring plenty of supplies with him that isn't ale. 
> 
> thanks a lot for reading commenting/kudoing (if you're here for the first time)   
> and see you in the next chapter   
> -xoxo, Bro


	49. Bath with me love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baths, so many baths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Geralt typical angst, aka he almost gets a panic attack.   
> Also bathing which includes not described nakedness- so really you can imagine they're wearing swimming trunks if you like.   
> Also some mild Geralt thorst

A chilly gust of wind passes through the open window of Geralt’s room, skirting before the big fireplace and the low flames rise in defiance before they fall again in the gentle flickering hum they were used to. It smells of snow and Geralt knows soon enough the keep will be burrowed under layers upon layers of it. Maybe not tomorrow but surely within the week. 

He absently thinks of Coen and hopes that the Killer doesn’t live up to its name. The Griffin will make it before the heavy snows if Eskel is right. 

Jaskier and Yennefer are bickering about something but he doesn’t have the strength to listen to their conversation or to stop them. His energy has been drained by the intense questioning of Vesemir and by the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. 

While he’s glad he won’t have to sleep on the cold floor, still, he worries about spending the night in the same bed as Yennefer (he secretly longs for it). He’s glad Jaskier will be sleeping between them, a separation of sorts, but at the same time, it also bothers him. 

He’d like to sleep between those two if he were to be honest with himself. 

Those strong feelings for the sorceress and the Bear Witcher are too much. Too energy draining. He loves them both --equally-- and it hurts. It just hurts so fucking  _ much _ . 

He can’t be with them both. But it’s not like he has to choose; no, quite the opposite. He can’t be with Yen, no matter how much he wants to, not until the djinn bond is annulled and he can be sure his feelings are true. And even then, even if they are, Yennefer might not want to be with him. 

On the other hand, he truly loves Jaskier. He’s his best friend, the person that understands him most in this world. And he loves him deeply, with every inch of his being. He loves his laughter and boundless energy, his fierceness and intelligence. 

He sighs deeply and promises to himself not think of those things if he can. No point in suffering a whole winter. (He knows there’s no chance in hell he won’t have a breakdown again.)

“Geralt,” Yennefer calls him, “Please tell that utter buffoon not to lie on the clean sheets before he’s taken a thorough bath. Quite honestly he stinks of sweat.” 

“Hey!” Jaskier exclaims, “I do not stink!” he sniffs at his armpit and his face morphs in disgust, “I stand corrected. A bath sounds nice.”

Geralt hums, “A bath,” he echoes. Maybe a bath can help put his racing thoughts at ease. 

“Yes, a bath Geralt. Surely, you have baths here, have you not?” Yennefer crosses her arms in front of herself, “And close the damn window while you’re at it. The wind’s howling.” 

He moves mechanically to the window, securing it so that the barest clean air enters the room but no wind. “We have baths,” he says after a while, “Communal. Down in the basement.” 

“Oh, yuck,” Ciri chimes in, still rocking softly on the thick canvas hammock, “I want a bath but I don’t want a communal one.”

“Neither do I, if I can help it,” Yennefer agrees, “You have a tub here, Geralt,” she points at a big washbasin propped on a wall, “Could you fetch some water for Ciri and me?” 

“We certainly can, our ladies,” Jaskier bows, “Right Geralt?”

Geralt hums in agreement. 

He leads Jaskier to the courtyard where the keep’s well is, and goes to get some extra buckets to bring enough water up with the minimum amount of scaling the staircase up and down again. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” Jaskier sighs when he sees the two, admittedly, small buckets on Geralt’s hands. 

“Afraid not. Lambert blew holes on the rest of our buckets, testing out experimental ‘firearms’- whatever that means.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Jaskier lowers the well’s rope, ”We have to find a quicker way to bring water up, you know. It’s not really-” he starts pulling the rope now,” -something I want to keep doing every day for the next three or so months.”

Geralt hums in agreement. 

“Maybe a pulley thing? That could work. Yeah, no, it’ll definitely work.”

“Maybe,” Geralt agrees, “Or we can convince them that the communal baths aren’t a bad idea.”

“Hah!  _ Hilarious _ , Geralt. Yennefer’s chaos will be back in full power before we manage to convince them to even  _ look  _ at the place.” 

* * *

It takes them a dozen trips up and down the tower in order to fill the tub with sufficient water. Geralt is not looking forward to the next time the girls request a bath. And neither is Jaskier. The Bear Witcher is thoroughly drenched in sweat, his simple cotton chemise clinging on his chest and arms. 

If Geralt weren’t so lost in his own thoughts, if he weren’t feeling like he was about to be torn asunder by his treacherous heart, he’d have stopped for a moment to admire the rare view. But he's lost, his whole being aches with loving two people simultaneously, that he resignes himself to grabbing a relatively clean change of clothes and undergarments, a towel and a comb and making his way to the baths. 

“Wait up, love,” Jaskier rushes, grabbing whatever piece of cloth he can find and shuffles behind him. 

For the last time this long day, they make their way down the three flights of stairs, Geralt leading the way mechanically. 

The moisture of the underground stream that passes through the bathroom – cavern really – hits Geralt’s nose and he absently notes to craft a cleaning schedule for the four big granite tubs that are aligned symmetrically in the room. Without thinking, he opens the mechanism that redirects the stream’s water into one of the tubs and places his bundle of clothes on a wooden bench positioned near it. 

“I guess, the water is cold?” Jaskier’s gaze is fixed on the steady supply of water that quickly fills the tub, “You know, we had hot springs in Haern Caduch. Now, that was a luxury. But we couldn’t really  _ stay  _ long in the water, lest we wanted our limbs to feel like that bone jello thing they eat in Kovir.”

“Hmmm.”

“One time, Ber stayed for three hours -  _ three hours, _ Geralt – in a spring and she couldn’t move properly for a whole week.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt’s fingers form Igni in the now filled tub and a wave of heat warms the water, just enough so that pleasant steam fills the air. He proceeds to strip off his clothes, dumping them unceremoniously on a corner on the stone ground. He’ll have to take care of cleaning them later, in the stream– he makes a mental note. 

A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he submerges himself in the hot bath.  _ This feels nice.  _ He can almost mute the voices of guilt in his head. 

"Shit, Geralt," Jaskier hisses as he enters a leg in the tub on the right of Geralt, "that's scalding hot." And then despite the protests he enters and sits on the floor of the bathtub, dunking his head in the water. 

"Hmmm," Geralt hums again when deft fingers comb through the tangles of his dirty hair.

"You know," Jaskier's fingers leave Geralt's hair and he wants to protest, bring them back, "you can talk to me love. Whatever's very obviously plaguing you, no matter what it is you can tell me, you know that right?" He manhandles him –and Geralt lets him, too tired to move on his own– so that Geralt's back rests on Jaskier's torso and wraps a pair of big arms around him. 

Fuck. 

Since when- since when can Geralt fit so well in Jaskier's embrace? Since when is he the smaller one?

Geralt has never had the illusion that Jaskier is a small man. On the contrary, Jaskier is almost of a height with him with strong arms and wide shoulders. But- but he's not bigger than Geralt. Always a bit leaner, a bit smaller. Never- 

"Geralt? Are you alright? Your heart is doing a funny thing."

“M fine,” he sinks till his mouth is meeting the warm water. It’s not the time to have revelations about his partner’s physique. Not when his mind is already confused, torn between lilac purple and buttercup yellow. Not when he keeps thinking about the upcoming sleeping arrangements and wanting nothing more than to lie between the two people his heart longs for. Not when- He shouldn’t- 

_ Breathe Geralt.  _

_ Breathe.  _

His breathing comes hitched, ragged, it’s like his lungs are failing him again, failing to do the one task they are there for. 

“Follow my breathing love,” Jaskier says and inhales slowly before he exhales again, “Good, like this. Inhale— Exhale. Good, Geralt.”

It takes some time for Geralt to feel like he can breathe again, Jaskier’s soothing voice and touch grounding him. 

“I think I know what this is about,” Jaskier says in a calm voice, “Don’t be alarmed, love. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

“ _ Is it _ ?” Geralt’s voice cracks and he hates how weak he sounds, how fragile,  _ broken.  _

“It is,” Jaskier affirms, his hands moving to Geralt’s hair, slathering a generous amount of soap on it. It feels nice. “I know- We know, Yen and I both, that you love us both. We know and we don’t judge you for it. I want you to know that. I get it, Geralt, I really do. I see what you see in Yennefer aside from her beauty. She’s really quite wonderful, isn’t she?” he chuckles, and that somehow calms Geralt’s racing heart. 

Geralt hums, because words have deserted him long now.

“You know,” Jaskier pauses briefly (for dramatic effect, Geralt is quite sure), “I talked with her about this… situation. She’s a stubborn one, blaming everything on the bond, but- but no bloody djinn wish could fabricate such strong feelings she harbours for you. And I’m fine with that, Geralt. I guess what I want to say is, that I won’t go between you two, for what you feel for one another is wonderful.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Jules,” Geralt says, his voice barely a whisper, “I don’t want to lose either of you again. And I- I can’t choose. I don’t want to choose,” he presses his palms on his eyes, as if the pressure will magically chase the shame he feels away. 

“But can’t you see, Geralt?” You’re not losing us; neither Yen nor me. We are fine with you being with both of us. Well, Yen will be fine with being with you again when she’s convinced her feelings are real, but I guess the sentiment remains.”

“Both?” he croaks. 

“Both. Now help me wash my hair too, and let’s go get us some dinner because quite honestly I’m on the brink of starvation.”

Geralt snorts a laugh, “You ate an hour ago.”

“Two figs and five almonds? That’s hardly any food, you brute.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt hums and repositions himself so that he looks at Jaskier and reaches for the Bear Witcher’s hair. “It’s getting long,” he comments absentmindedly. 

“Kinda missed my old look,” Jaskier hums, “I inform you that I will also be growing a beard.”

“Ah, the  _ glorious beard  _ days are upon us, I see.”

“I’m conducting a scientific experiment, Geralt.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, and continues massaging Jaskier’s scalp. 

“I want to see if Lambert will recognise me after I grow out my beard, or if he’s just being an asshole for no reason.”

“Impressive and very important science,” Geralt says, sarcasm thick in his voice. 

“I knew you’d get it, love,” Jaskier smirks before a peal of laughter escapes his lips. 

They clean themselves properly in comfortable silence and when they’re done they move to the bench to dry up and don their clean clothes. 

“I am a fool,” Jaskier groans dramatically, “I grabbed my summer clothes.  _ Cock _ !”

“I’m sure Eskel will have a coat or blanket lying around somewhere in the main hall, you can borrow if you’re cold.”

“Yeah, no. That’s not the issue here, for you see, I don’t really get cold during winter. Useful mutations and so on and so forth,” Jaskier gestures with a hand abstractly, and proceeds to wear his light blue chemise which gets stuck somewhere in the middle of his pecs, “A lil help here? And please don’t comment on it, I don’t really control it.”

Geralt silently moves his hands on Jaskier's back, unfurling the rolled up cloth and tugging it down evenly. It's- it's a quite tight fit to Geralt's surprise and very much not an unwelcome sight that he finds himself humming in wonder.

"Shit," Jaskier clicks his tongue, tugging at the seams on his shoulders.

"What?"

"How stupid do I look in this?"

"Not at all? I don't understand."

"Hm. Well. I'll have to take your word for that. Anyhow, I suppose the first impression your mentor had of me is pretty much a ship that has sailed and sunk in the bottom of the ocean, and it's unlikely to get any worse so it doesn't really matter. Might as well be my sexy self for dinner," Jaskier snorts.

"Mmm, sexy," Geralt echoes, eyes fixed on those sinful arms. He clears his throat when Jaskier catches him staring and addresses the issue that is Vesemir: "Give Vesemir time. He doesn't know you yet and he's wary of outsiders."

"Let's see if you're right, love. Let's see if you're right," Jaskier moves to the stairs, the pair of pants forgotten on the bench.

"Aren't you gonna wear pants?"

"Ah," Jaskier scuttles back pulling the pants up his legs in a hurry, tucking his shirt in and tying the laces. Unfortunately for Geralt and fortunately for Jaskier, the trousers are not as tight as the chemise. "Right! Ready, for real now. Let's go upstairs!"

Geralt takes Jaskier's hand on his own and laces their fingers together, "Let's go."


	50. Mean Old Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vesemir is being mean  
> Yennefer finds out more about what Fringilla's spell did to her  
> Lambert is a sweetheart  
> Ciri and the Hammock have a spat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw:  
> -some swearing  
> -Ves being a bit of a bastard  
> -some talking about fucking (nothing graphic or explicit)

The first dinner with Geralt’s family turns out exactly the disaster Julian expected it to be. Vesemir glares at him and only him, throughout the excruciating hour they’re all gathered around the big table, and Lambert is purposefully ignoring Julian’s existence, talking with everyone but him. 

_ Talk about feeling unwelcome. _

And that’s not the only thing that bothers him this night; the food on the table is admittedly very scarce, his… cabbage soup? Grass soup? In any case, his quite watered down greenish soup is a portion meant for Ciri and not an adult witcher. That worries him quite a bit, because while they brought to the keep whatever Yennefer’s housekeeper packed for them (mainly long-living vegetables and an assortment of jams) the state of the dinner suggests that it’s not in the slightest enough and that they will have an empty larder problem on their hands, sooner or later. 

At least Yennefer and Ciri prove to be good company, lighting up the sour mood with jokes and what turns to be a very intense and very informative conversation on the various uses of chaos. 

Geralt is mostly characteristically silent, but even he adds a dry humoured comment here and there, mainly at Lambert and Eskel’s expense.

When they are done eating this sorry excuse of a meal --he notes to ask for cooking duty if possible-- Vesemir rises from his seat and clears his throat in order to catch everyone’s attention. 

“Since almost everyone is here, it’s time to divide the chores for the coming week.” Oh, fun. ”Eskel, Geralt you’ll repair the walls. Lambert, kitchen. Aiden,” he appraises the Cat from head to toe, “You’ll clean the library. Yennefer, you’ll tend to the garden. Cirilla, you’ll assist the witch or Lambert with any help they may need,” Vesemir stares at Julian and clicks his tongue, “Jaskier, you’ll be doing laundry, cleaning the baths and the chamber pots. And you’ll tend to the animals as well.”

Julian musters every single inch of his being not to hiss at this- this quite blatant show of dislike towards his person. He remains calm, even though his righteousness is boiling inside, and nods. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” Geralt is the one to ask, “At least give the stable duty to me, Vesemir. You know I like it.”

“I said what I said, pup,” the elder witcher crosses his arms.

Yeesh.

“It’s fine, Geralt. Those are all small tasks that combined make a regular one.” They’re all disgusting tasks, and laundry is hardly an easy or not time consuming task, but that goes unsaid. Someone has to do them, and Julian just got the short end of the stick.

* * *

At least the night proves to be a pleasant one. They’re all exhausted from travel and as soon as their heads meet the pillows it’s off to dreamland. It helps that the bed is indeed, quite large and the three of them fit on it comfortably. Geralt takes the left side, Yennefer the right and Julian the middle. 

Ciri, by her insistence, wraps herself in a fur blanket cocoon on the hammock. 

Julian wakes up when the first rays of the sun hit his face. But it’s not the sun the one that wakes him -no- it’s a kick on his ribs that winds him out. 

The everloving-

He jerks his head towards Geralt’s side and sees the culprit; Ciri somehow made it to their bed in the middle of the night, probably after she couldn’t settle comfortably on the hammock. She’s positioned almost in a ninety-degree angle between Geralt and Julian, her feet thrashing in her sleep and her eyes moving rapidly beneath her closed eyelids. 

From the looks of it, she’s having a nightmare again, the poor girl. 

Yennefer, at the other side of Julian, curls into his chest, lips smacking together and brow furrowed. Her breathing comes ragged and her back arches and bends again in slow motions. 

Between the two, Julian isn’t sure what to do. Should he attempt to wake them up? Should he let them sleep? 

Quite honestly Yennefer’s strained breathing worries him more than Ciri’s nightmares at the moment, as it could prove to be a potential medical issue. 

“Yennefer,” he brushes the back of his hand on her cheek, moving her wild dark curls away from her face. 

Her eyelids flutter open, eyes cloudy and confused, and her breath hitches again. “Fuuuuuuuck,” she hisses, her voice barely audible, and clenches her fists on her chest.

“Shit, Yen!,” Julian whispers and hovers his hands above her curled frame, “Should I- Do you need help getting up?”

She exhales sharply, “Y-yes. Fuck- I’ll be fine-” her breath hops again, “Shit- cock-”

Julian moves an arm underneath her to support her weight. She uses the provided help to move into a sitting position and flexes her shoulder blades together, wincing from the pain. 

“Yen,” Geralt sounds from the other side of the bed, “Is it…?” 

She jerks a nod in response, “It’s the weather. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“Are you sure? Never seen you in that much pain before,” Geralt asks, a reluctance apparent in his voice. 

“What’s happening?” Ciri hops awake, her heartbeat jackrabbiting in her chest. She rubs her eyes, “Is Yennefer alright? What’s wrong with her?”

“Everything’s fine, little one,” Yennefer smiles, “I just have a bad back that can predict the weather,” she huffs a strained laugh- as if that could reassure anyone in the room that she’s truly doing alright. Julian shoots her a look when her breathing becomes strained again. “Oh relax, you worrywart witchers. _ Fu- Not again! _ Alright, I’ll admit it hasn’t been  _ that  _ bad since I was still in Aretuza. Must’ve been something that harlot mage of Nilfgaard did to me. Still, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just pain.”

The way Yennefer says the word ‘pain’ like it’s nothing, like it’s something so frequent that’s not even worth thinking about, unnerves Julian. He’s no stranger to old wounds acting up when the weather is changing, and he knows it’s something that no matter how much time passes will still inconvenience him- sometimes to such high degree that he’d rather forgo contracts he might have taken, from fear of performing subpar and ending up dead in a ditch because his once broken arm decides to jerk the wrong direction or something. 

“Do you- Can I- Hmmm,” Geralt presses his lips together into a thin line, seeming to have regretted whatever he wanted to ask. 

“Out with it, Geralt,” Yennefer rolls her amethyst eyes, and shakes her head. 

“Chamomile,” the White Wolf blurts out, and Julian cocks an eyebrow at his direction.

“What?” Yennefer blinks those pretty eyes of hers. 

“I think he wants to ask you if you want a massage,” Ciri intervenes and Geralt nods. 

“Gods, Geralt” Yennefer snorts, “What are you so scared of? Did you think I’d yell at you for offering to help? Do you think I'm  _ that  _ prideful?” her face morphs into faux-hurt. 

“I- no! Yen I didn’t-” Oh fuck. The way this is going, Julian will have a Geralt at the brink of panic very soon. Again. 

Julian stares at Yennefer with wide eyes, trying to project his thoughts to her telepathically. He knows she has the ability to read thoughts to an extent and he intends to forge a connection with her so he can tell her to notch down the teasing a smidge. ‘ _ Geralt had a panic attack yesterday. Please don’t tease him _ ,’ the message repeats again and again in his brain until he sees Yennefer nod in understanding. 

“Calm down, Geralt,” she says, “I was just messing with you.” She pauses for a moment, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Water under the bridge,” Geralt cuts her off. 

“Sooooooo, are you feeling better, dearest Yen, or should Geralt and I compete on who’ll give you a massage? I’m certain that’s a show you’d rather enjoy,” Julian winks cheekily. 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Ciri deadpans and climbs down the bed. She walks to the hammock which she pats with a hand and whispers, “I trusted you, you traitor,” before she slips in her boots, wears her coat and scuttles downstairs. 

“What the hell?” a peal of laughter escapes Yennefer’s lips, and Julian joins her. Even Geralt snorts a laugh. “Now you two,” she licks her lips, an action that makes Julian remember that fake but oh so wonderful kiss in Ferrant’s mansion which makes his heart skip a beat, “Compete,” she commands, a smirk adorning that pretty mouth of hers. 

* * *

Coen arrives a bit later that day, and Vesemir assigns him to the repairs of the walls- which means they do need manpower there but the elder witcher either refuses to acknowledge Julian’s pleas to help around more than just getting rid of literal shit. 

Not that his tasks are any less important, no, not that at all. A clean keep is a happy keep, after all. But it’s- it’s unsatisfying, alright?

In any case, nothing much changes for the next week. The meals Julian is served are always meagre, always lacking. He pretends he doesn’t notice that everybody else gets the better cuts off the meat -- or more like, they get meat in their food while Julian gets fleshy bones. He eats the bones nonetheless, crunching straight through them, and then he snatches the discarded bones from Yen’s and Ciri’s plates and eats them too. Fuck dignity, fuck everything. He refuses to run on low energy because a certain someone is being a mean old bitch.

And after every supper, Julian brings out his trusty elven lute and plays some songs the younger witchers ask for (mainly Eskel and Aiden). And every single time Vesemir rolls his eyes and grumbles about needless noise. Julian is sure the older witcher is doing that on purpose because he caught him once or twice humming along some of the older songs and even tap his leg on the rhythm of one. 

“I have the feeling that your father figure doesn’t like me,” Julian says to Geralt one evening, right before they settle on the bed to sleep. “Actually scratch that, he hates me like- like I fucked his mother or something. Before you say anything, I doubt I actually managed to somehow  _ do that. _ ” 

“I don’t think Vesemir hates you,” Geralt defends and Julian cocks an eyebrow, “Alright, yes, he’s acting strange, I’ll admit that. I’ll try talking to him tomorrow again.” 

“Good luck with that,” Yennefer sighs, “I think he’s got the wrong impression, and he’s dead set to that skewed image of our pretty bard here.”

“Aw, you called me pretty,” Julian coos, “Old age must be getting to you, Yen.”

She rolls her eyes, a tiny, mischievous smile forming on her lips, “Pretty as in pretty annoying, you old wrinkly man.”

“ _ Right, _ ” he chuckles, “Let’s attempt to sleep, shall we? I have laundry to do again, first thing in the morning. Just how in Melitele’s bountiful bosom does Lambert and Aiden produce so many dirty-” he pauses for a moment recounting the pile of stinky sheets, towels and clothes, “- _ everything?” _

“You don’t wanna know,” Geralt grunts, cringing visibly. 

“Damn right I don’t.”

* * *

Julian wakes up in the middle of the night - or at least he makes an educated guess about the hour, based on the scarce light the moon produces- in dire need to use the bathroom. He knew he shouldn’t have had water for dinner but what can he do really, when access to the kitchen is forbidden to everyone but Vesemir and Lambert? 

Not wanting to piss in the chamberpot and have the smell of urine distract him from his well-earned sleep (that bloody laundry is stealing from him already), Julian makes his way to the courtyard, mindful to keep his steps feather light; a task easy enough when he forgoes wearing shoes. 

As he reaches the last flight of stairs he overhears Lambert and Vesemir having a conversation. Curious as Julian is, he tip-toes further towards the hushed voices, vowing to leave them be when he’s certain they’re not planning to kick him out of the keep or anything. Given both of their behaviours the past day alone, he’s not exactly being paranoid. Or at least that is what he tells to himself to justify the eavesdropping. 

“You know this shit can’t go on much longer,” Lambert hisses. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” the elder witcher retaliates. 

“You know bloody well what I mean; you’re being an asshole to Julian for no good fucking reason. The fuck did he do to you to deserve such treatment?”

_ Oh? _ Lambert defending him is not something Julian expected. 

“My reasons are my own, pup. And if you were smart you’d do the same.”

“The fuck I would!” Lambert shrieks, “I’ve known Julian for a long-ass time, old man. He’s a good man and a good witcher. Whatever you think he did is probably horseshit.”

Wait a moment. Moving as it might be, Lambert’s speech outright confirms that the little pisspot remembers Julian and has, in fact, recognised him sans beard. Then why does he avoid him? It doesn’t make sense.

Vesemir grunts, “Could swear you didn’t like him.”

“Listen,” Lambert’s voice sounds again, a bit more calm this time, “I can’t believe I have to say this to you of all people,” Lambert sighs, “I like Julian, he’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had in this shit life. I’m just trying to give the man some fucking space, cause he’s obviously in a relationship with Geralt and he cares a lot about him, and fuck- I can’t fucking believe I’m about to say this- Julian and I used to fuck and I don’t want Geralt to feel uncomfortable.”

Thats- That’s actually kind of sweet. Julian will have to have a lengthy conversation with the youngest Wolf about not needing to pretend he doesn’t know him in order to not hurt Geralt’s feelings. Because honestly, this past week Geralt has been as confused as Julian on the matter of Lambert. 

“Still,” Vesemir says, “you didn’t give me a good reason why I should trust him.” 

A shriek of anger and exasperation escapes Lambert’s throat, “Go. Bloody. Talk. To. Julian. For. Fuck’s. Sake,” he takes a deep breath, “Give him a chance, Ves. Take him with you to hunt some game tomorrow, or fish, or whatever the fuck you do after you leave each day. Talk to him. You know, with  _ actual fucking words. _ I’m telling you, he’s a good fucking person.”

“Very well, I’ll talk to the Bear.” 

Julian has heard enough. Silent as a cat, he makes his way through the hall when he’s sure no-one will notice him and beelines to the courtyard, his bladder protesting from the unexpected delay. 

Tomorrow will be a hell of an interesting day, it seems. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to Jenn for looking through this chapter 💙
> 
> Sooooo Vesemir is not being needlessly mean, I swear.  
> It'll all be revealed soonish
> 
> ~~am I projected my fucked up spine onto Yen? Heck yeah I am~~
> 
> in any case, hope yall enjoyed this little chapteroni <3  
> Comments are always appreciated <3


	51. the bear and the Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vesemir talks to Julian  
> cw: animal death for hunting purposes.

Vesemir stares at the ceiling of his spacious room, the conversation he had previously that night with his youngest pup replaying in his mind. A sigh leaves his lips and he rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers. 

Lambert swears by Julian or Jaskier or whatever the fuck that Bear’s name is this season. And so does Geralt. The White Wolf stares at the man like a lovestruck fool when he thinks nobody is watching. 

It shouldn’t be that big of a deal; Vesemir usually trusts the company his pups keep. Yet, the Bear is… he just doesn’t sit right with Vesemir. 

Only a fortnight ago, when Vesemir went to Yspaden to get some last-minute things for the larder, expecting at best four witchers to make it to the keep --aside from himself-- this year, the alderman approached him with a bounty notice on his hand. The woman basically begged on her knees to send the witcher with the bounty on his head --4000 crowns, what an exuberant amount-- to Yspaden, preferably tied and beaten. 

If not for the quite ridiculous high reward money, Vesemir wouldn’t have paid the wanted man, or the pleas of the alderman, any notice. And thinking about it now, it’s a good thing that he did. 

Julian must have pissed off somebody important or possibly committed an atrocious crime (or maybe both) to be worth so much money across the northern kingdoms. But Vesemir was willing to let this slide if he ever met the man in person (who knew that not even a week after he was shown that piece of parchment that he’d come face to face with Julian) because it’s not unheard of for witchers to get bounties on their head for the most stupid of reasons. 

That was the case with Lambert a decade ago, who pissed off a local lord by calling him a chicken, of all things, and got himself hunted by bounty-hunters ‘till the matter got resolved with some intervention from Vesemir. 

He admits he might have acted a bit harshly when Geralt introduced Julian to him. But he’s hardly in the wrong here. Geralt spent the last two decades speaking of his best friend Jaskier, praising his talent and wit, sharing all sorts of stories of the presumed human man.

So when Vesemir’s gaze met a very obviously Bear Witcher instead of a human bard he saw red. The bounty and its association with Jaskier came to his mind later that day, when he heard the Cat call him Julian. 

From the looks of it, Geralt didn’t know that his best friend all those years was a witcher. And while the pup seems to be fine with this fact, Vesemir is very much not fine at all. 

No man worth his coin would keep a secret that big for over two decades. No friend and no lover would do something like this. Julian, therefore, cannot be trusted until proven otherwise. And Vesemir does not want untrustworthy people leeching off the already scarce supplies of his keep. 

Fucking parasite. 

He’d hoped that the tough work and the obvious display of distrust and dislike would eventually chase the Bear away. He thought that Lambert was in on it with him, that he wanted Julian gone as much as he did. 

Apparently, he was wrong. 

Not only was Vesemir dead wrong --he’d been fine, really, if Lambert was just neutral towards the bard-witcher-- but no, the youngest wolf had to swear on Julian’s good nature. Asked Vesemir to talk to the Bear. 

Another deep sigh escapes his lips, and he rises from his bed, sure now that no sleep will come to him this night. 

Might as well humour Lambert and actually talk to Julian. Get his side of the story. 

Vesemir lights a candle with a flick of his fingers and with sluggish movements dons his gambeson and leather vest. 

The moon is high on the sky, dawn a couple of hours away still. Sleep is already out of the window so he might as well get to his chores. He was planning to go hunting and maybe also foraging today, get some stuff to preserve and fill the larder before they get snowed in and have no choice but to rely on the meagre winter crops he’s planted and the goats and chickens his pups brought back this year.

It’s as good a time as ever to start with this, he supposes, and he may kill two birds with one stone and take Julian with him. The sooner this --whatever this is-- is settled, the better. 

* * *

Vesemir, to his surprise, finds Julian meditating by the fireplace in Geralt’s room. The Bear Witcher cracks an eye open the moment Vesemir opens the door and brings a finger to his mouth motioning him to remain silent.

Vesemir crosses his arms and waits patiently for the man by the door. 

“You’ll come hunting with me, today,” Vesemir says, the volume of his voice low enough as to not disturb Geralt, the witch and the kid’s sleep. Julian nods and turns to the wardrobe procuring a heavy-looking set of armour. 

When he’s done dressing in a simple but sturdy-looking light brown gambeson and a matching leather vest and pants, his weapons --two swords and a crossbow-- secured in holsters by his hips and back, the Bear Witcher joins him, nodding silently to the stairs. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Julian asks once they’re out in the courtyard, his voice giving away his wariness. 

“Listen,” Vesemir says, leading the way to the surrounding woods, “I don’t like you.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Julian says flatly. 

“I may not like you,  _ cub _ ,” Vesemir continues, annoyed by the interference, “but my boys do, and they swear by you. Tell me, do they know of the bounty on your head?” he aims to test the waters with this question. 

“That’s been dealt with,” Julian responds sharply, “If you want to know, my crime was visiting my mother’s grave in Lettenhove and not paying attention whether there were any onlookers at the sight. What, you thought me a heinous criminal that has wrapped his spindly  _ corrupted  _ fingers around your pups? And Geralt knows, by the way. I’d never keep a secret that big from him.” 

“4000 crowns. What was I to think?”

“The Pankratzes are known for their dramatics.” Julian points at the ground further up ahead where there are fresh visible hoof prints. 

So Vesemir’s initial intuition was right and there was hardly any crime in play. That’s one thing less to worry about. At the very least he doesn’t have a criminal living in his keep. He sighs in relief. Still, there’s the matter of the bard’s unexpected witcheriness to discuss. As he’s about to open his mouth to speak, Julian shoves him out of the way and Vesemir watches stunned as a brown bear --that should very much be hibernating at this time of the year-- runs towards the other witcher, growling. 

In the two seconds it takes the enraged animal to reach them, Julian steadies his footing and leaps for a grapple. He encircles the bear with his arms, fingers clenching around the thick fur, and lifts with a quick motion the creature above him slamming it headfirst with unimaginable force on the ground. 

A sickening crunching sound echoes around the forest as the animal’s head connects with a rock. 

Julian slithers at the side, releasing the now very dead bear to the ground. He proceeds to stab it with his sword through the heart, even though it’s clearly not breathing.

“What... the  _ fuck… _ ?” Vesemir breathes out, his heart hammering against his ribcage. In all his two hundred something years he’s never witnessed something as bizarre. 

“Oh dear,” Julian appraises the rather large animal, “I guess this counts as a successful hunt?” 

“That was incredibly dangerous! What were you thinking?”

“I was not; thinking, that is,” Julian responds and presses his lips into a thin line, eyes darting around in thought. Vesemir waits patiently. “Sometimes, in situations like this, my body acts before I can think rationally,” he says, bringing a hand to trace the scar that splits his lip, “They taught us to be like that. Quick, aggressive… with just the barest self-preservation instinct to assure survival,” he sighs and a strained chuckle leaves his mouth, “I never asked for any of this, you know… I’d rather sing my throat off and bloody my fingertips on the lute’s strings than-” Julian’s eyes go distant, hollow, and he clutches his witcher medallion with a hand. 

It’s clear to Vesemir now that the man before him is hiding years of suffering under his usual foolish and jovial act. He’s heard rumours of the Bears’ upbringing being somewhat  _ unconventional _ before, but all the talk surrounding the most aggressive witcher school hadn't prepared him for this raw display of instinct. Vesemir wonders just how different the two schools' training must have been. 

He shakes his head and hums, “How did you even manage to traipse after Geralt as a bard for twenty years, boy?” 

“Oh, ehm…” Julian’s eyes are fixed on a particularly interesting branch on the ground, “I kind of got myself cursed? Mind you, I thought I was purchasing a glamour to hide my scars and eyes _.  _ It’s incredibly embarrassing, I’m aware of it - what witcher proves unable to sniff out a good ol’ cursed item anyway? - but all in all, it wasn’t  _ that  _ bad, being human for a while.”

“You spent coin to get yourself cursed,” Vesemir blinks in disbelief. Oh gods, Julian sure is… is something alright. It all clicks in Vesemir’s mind as he fathoms just how the Bear Witcher operates; namely without a single thought at any point in time. He probably didn’t even think it important to mention to Geralt that he was a cursed witcher-turned-human. 

And that’s the man Geralt loves. Gods. 

“Let’s just say that magic is not my strong point and leave it at that,” Julian hauls the bear over his shoulder in a movement that seems effortless (even if the animal probably weighs a lot). “I’m most likely digging my own grave here now,” he says and Vesemir arches a brow, “given that you hate my guts already, and want to - and don’t try to refuse it, I’m not dumb nor oblivious- kick me out of your keep, but there’s  _ nothing  _ in this world that will make me stop loving your son.” 

“Good,” Vesemir says simply and moves to help the Bear Witcher carry the animal back to the keep, even though the man looks like he has it handled. 

“ _ Good? _ ” Strained laughter leaves Julian’s throat, “Good,” he echoes again, “I assume after today’s quite… whatever this was, we go back to the usual?”

“Nah. I’ll make a more fair schedule. More suited to everyone’s strengths and shortcomings,” Vesemir admits. “You’re not as bad as I thought you were, Bear.”  _ And I don’t want to be responsible for bringing any more stress to Geralt _ , he doesn’t say. 

"... Alright, yeah… thank you. Might I propose having someone other than Lambert cook once in a while? It's not that I do not enjoy grass-water, but  _ I do not enjoy grass-water- _ and correct me if I'm wrong, but nobody else enjoys it either." 

Vesemir snorts, "He's our best cook." He’s not --Eskel is-- but if a week of measuring the other man, of trying to determine his loyalties, taught him something is that he’s very easy to fool. 

Vesemir wishes he could see Julian’s face but he imagines it matches the high pitched hiss the Bear Witcher releases. 

“Mind if I give it a go sometime?” Julian asks, and repositions the front two legs of their  _ ‘hunt’  _ on his shoulders, never stopping his careful walk, “Saw some winter fruit trees and bushes as we were going into the forest that might be good to save for later in the season. Could make some jam, maybe preserves. I’m quite good at pickling vegetables too, if I say so myself. Just ask Geralt; my pickled horseradish is to  _ die _ for.” 

Vesemir hums, “Not a bad idea, Bear. Not bad at all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo,,,, I hope u enjoyed the journey to the discovery that Julian is just a himbo, through Vesemir's eyes <3  
> And I hope you enjoyed the image of Julian german-suplexing (almost) a literal bear  
> Next chapter will most likely be Yennefer pov, I think, so my masterplan to ot3 will come together at some point
> 
> Your comments and positive response to this fic always makes my day guys<3

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by many Witcher!Jaskier fics, which I love very very much  
> My take on Jaskier is a Witcher but Geralt doesn't know.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :D  
> I'm not a native English speaker so please correct me if I get something wrong. Thanks <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [something ends, something begins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347692) by [vipersong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipersong/pseuds/vipersong)




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